


Voicemail

by LoveIsAMyth (sweetponzu)



Category: GOT7
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Food, Friendship, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Movie Night, Pancakes, Pillow Fights, Romance, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Voicemail, fluffy Pancakes, friends are beautiful creatures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 15:52:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3494096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetponzu/pseuds/LoveIsAMyth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Then, they laugh. They laugh long and hard and it knocks them off their feet and it was like the roof top again. Except this time, Mark had socks on and Jackson was in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Self harm (non-explicit), suicidal thoughts and cursing.
> 
> ALSO, I would really love it if anyone would be willing to beta-- please pm me!

**You have 1 new voice message.**

  
_I'm sorry_

  
Jackson groans. Not this again. 

  
_So sorry_

  
_I didn't..._

  
His deep baritone voice continues, and Jackson wonders if his voice has always been that deep or if it’s because the guy always sounded so wrecked and near tears whenever he called.

  
_I will never forget you._

  
His voice cracked on  _you._ He pauses for a moment, a small muffled sound, which Jackson can imagine was him taking a moment to bite his lips, as Jackson liked to pretend he was wont to do whenever his voice gives up under the intense emotional pressure that the guy puts himself under.

This was starting to really break Jackson's heart. He doesn't know how much more of this he can take.

  
_I loved you._

  
The guilt Jackson was feeling, like a leaden hammer, constantly pounds on his heart. His heart makes a pitiful squelching noise with every hit--every voice mail he leaves.

  
_I wish you would reply. I wish you would call back, I wish you could-- oh god, I can't.  
It's my fault and I'm sorry and I wish_ \-- from there the guy on the other line's words become garbled and incoherent.

 Jackson could catch a few words like  _wish it were me instead_ ,  _wish I could hold you_  until absolutely nothing is audible but the hiccupping, sniveling breathing on the other line which eventually tapers down to small inhales and exhales-- signaling that the caller has cried himself to sleep on Jackson’s voicemail once again.

He always does. 

  
At this point, Jackson has heard the guy pour his heart out and cry and beg and wail and everything in between. If he was his ex-lover, he would have gotten back together with him already, just for his sheer determination and heartfelt words. Too bad the words Jackson hears every night aren't really for him.   
 

The guy has been calling the wrong number for the past two weeks. 

  
Jackson doesn't even want to imagine what kind of reaction the guy will have, once he finds out that some asshole has been listening in to his most vulnerable moments that were meant for his ex-girlfriend. 

  
He knows that he should have told the guy he was calling the wrong number, two weeks ago, a week ago--heck the day the calls started. 

But Jackson couldn't bring himself to do it. And he doesn't understand why.

Maybe because he was bored. Maybe he just wanted to be sadistic and listen to another’s misery. Maybe because the kind of emotions that the guy had for his girlfriend was more than Jackson has ever poured into his relationships-- even more than what anyone else bothered to give him.

  
Jackson wants to laugh at his own stupidity. He was relying on a broken, miserable guy from god knows where for companionship and emotional guidance. God, he was so pathetic.

  
In the beginning, Jackson hoped the calls would stop all on their own, that the guy meets up with the girl and works it out, that he finds out from her that he's been calling the wrong number.   
But here he was now, two weeks later, still receiving and listening to the guy's heartbroken cries.

He goes to sleep, wondering what the miserable guy’s name is. The image of a frail, red eyed, red lipped and hunched over form in his head, no matter how miserable, deserves at least a name.

 

…

It started when Jackson misses his afternoon call with his mother because of something stupid that got him called in by the dean. 

  
Jackson wasn't really the type to check his voice mailbox but he didn't want to risk calling his mom, in case she was at work or busy already. He'd rather not have her be even madder at him than she probably already was. So he resolves to listen to her message and leave one in kind. 

  
**You have 2 new voice messages.**

  
That was weird. She left two? She might be even more furious than he thought.

  
"Ka Yee, you better be eating right, over there! I just sent you some money, I know you don't like it when I do but just humor your mama, okay? Take care, love you."

  
He shakes his head in resignation and relief, his mother worries too much, which was probably why he loved her so much (and the fact that he let her live on his own at all after all that's happened, says a lot about her confidence in him. He really loves her.). He'll have to call her back to at least put up a fight. But then, if she wasn't mad, then why would she leave two messages?

  
He presses next, to hear the second voice message.

  
Instead of his mom's usual warm, fast paced chatter, he hears a deep, breaking, raspy voice that sounded like sand paper grinding against each other into dust.

  
Since then, it was a voice that he secretly looked forward to hearing. If his hesitance to stop their correspondence--if it can even be considered that--was anything to go by.   
 

…

As Jackson settles in his bed for the night, prepping himself for the inevitable voice message, his phone rings once and then stops. He continues to change for bed because he knows it’ll take the guy a while.

  
But he's surprised when his phone makes a small ping noise a couple minutes later, to signal that he had one new voice message. 

  
It felt rather short to him. So he dives to his bed and quickly accesses his voicemail.

_I'm sorry. I did it again. I know you hate it when I do but... Bleeding makes me feel… It feels like I become closer to you somehow. And I-- **Mark?! WHAT are you doing?!** \-- _And then the message ends.

The ending beep rings loudly in his ears, as Jackson feels all the blood drain from his face.  
The guy was  _hurting_  himself.

God, it was worse than Jackson thought. He shouldn't have been so selfish. He should have told him it was a wrong number earlier, maybe then; his cries would have reached his girlfriend.

  
Oh god. Jackson could have  _killed_  somebody.   
 

As Jackson falls asleep for the night, he makes it his goal to find this guy; get him help. Find his ex-girlfriend; get them back together. It’s the least he can try to do for being a complete asshat.

He tells this to Jaebum the next day; tells him about the guy who calls every night to beg his girlfriend to come back to him. How he has a bleeding heart and even bloodier wrists.

Jaebum twists his face into a sympathetic grimace. He tells Jackson he'll help him with his self-proclaimed mission; get the other guys in on it too. He tells him about how another friend of his is going through a tough time as well and resorting to the same method. He shakes his head and questions why people would harm themselves.

  
Jackson discretely tugs down his jacket sleeves, suddenly self conscious of the thin, silver lines running horizontally against his wrists, like a web of elaborate crosshatch stitches reflected in the light.  
It really wasn't Jaebum's business what others do with their own bodies—but he stops himself from saying so, because then, he'd be a hypocrite.

He wanted the stranger to stop cutting himself.

Jaebum asked him if he knew anything about the guy. Jackson tells him that all he knows is that the guy was probably around their age and had the same area code on his phone number as they do. 

  
Jaebum asks if he even knows his name, Jackson says no.

His name's Mark. He knew but he felt inexplicably possessive of the information. He knew it would help Jaebum help him but...  
 

Well Jackson has never really claimed to be rational anyway.

Besides, this was the 21st century. He could find Mark with the power of the internet.

Jackson almost giggles to himself as he sat at the computer lab, typing in Mark's name into Google. He congratulates himself for being such a genius as he presses search. 

His pride is short lived as 1,950,345,793 results pop up. 

  
Mark  _is_  a rather common name... Well shit.  
 

He might just need reinforcements for this. He calls Yugyeom and Bambam, bribes them with the promise of meat if they leave their gaming den to help him find the damsel in distress. He would have laughed at his own joke but one; only lame people laughed at their own jokes, and he was cool damn it and two; he felt a bit uncomfortable, laughing at the other's expense, especially since he doesn't even know if the other is alive and well.

 

Mark still hasn't called again, two nights after the last distressing call.

  
Jackson tries not to be miffed by it, he really shouldn't be bothered, and it wasn't like they promised or had any responsibility to each other--heck the other guy doesn't even know Jackson exists-- but... It still irritated him a bit. Just a bit. 

  
He takes out his frustration on Bambam, leaning his full weight on him, while giving him a noogie. The younger boy whines and Yugyeom laughs at his expense. Bambam glares at Yugyeom and was about to hit the younger boy but Jackson cuts in, telling them to stop horse playing and help him find the guy.

After showing them how his first attempt failed, both boys look at him as if he just told them that he sincerely though that two plus two equaled five--They looked at him like he was a dumb motherfucker. And Jackson admits that may be he is, if he thought his dongsaengs were going to be of much help.

  
He tells them as much.

  
"Hyung, believe me, you need all the help you can get." Bambam replies with a deadpan voice.

  
"Lucky for you, hyung, I know just what to do to internet stalk someone." Yugyeom chimes in with an innocent smile. 

  
Before he could process the sentence and make a witty retort, Yugyeom snatches his phone from him, quickly dictating a number to the other boy, who types it furiously into the search engine—then the next thing he knows, Bambam is showing him the Facebook page of one Mark Tuan. 

  
Jackson's eyes widen and his jaws become slack. 

  
Bambam gives a whistle, mock whispering to Yugyeom-- the cheeky bastard-- that  _Mark's really handsome, no wonder Jackson hyung wanted to stalk him online._

  
This snaps Jackson out of his stupor and smacks Bambam at the back of his head.

  
"YAH, learn to respect your elders!"  His outburst promptly causes them to get kicked out of the computer lab by a fuming lab helper. 

  
Jackson couldn’t even bring himself to look sheepish, after all, he finally found Mark!

...sorta.

…

They try to crash at Jaebum’s flat, but the bastard tells them that he’s out and can’t leave to entertain them and their antics. Jackson is deeply offended because his mission was  _not_ an  _antic!_

But in the end, they just decide to try crashing at Jinyoung’s, who had the fastest internet and the biggest couch out of everyone else’s place, instead. Since he didn’t answer the phone, then he didn’t technically tell them no, right?

So Jackson drags the two to Jinyoung’s, telling them to call in Youngjae while they were at it.

He was determined to share their findings and put the plan to action as soon as possible.

He wanted to say that he was surprised to find that no one’s home but that would mean that Jackson was stupid, which he is not, no matter what the younger ones are trying to imply as they sat on their butts on the curb in front of Jinyoung’s building.

He bought them ice cream too! Ungrateful little bastards.

They wait there, and when Youngjae arrives, he tosses him his half finished strawberry ice cream cup—Youngjae fumbles to catch it but sits down and waits with them nonetheless.

The other two tell Youngjae about what happened in the computer lab, but a version so exaggerated, that Pinocchio would be weeping with envy. He didn’t drool over Mark’s profile photo!

But the guy was actually really attractive. It was almost unfair, how attractive he was, really. Pink full lips, smooth skin, doe eyes and the flaming red hair—the hair was definitely what struck Jackson the most. He’s always had the image of the guy, with red swollen eyes, red bitten lips and, since the last voice message, red bleeding wrists. But red hair…oddly enough, it suits him. If everything had to be dyed ( _died; Jackson has a twisted sense of humor)_  red, why not his hair as well?

Jackson is starting to  _really_ like the color red.

…

“—I’m telling you, Mark looks really familiar, like I’ve met him or at least seen him before, you know?” Yugyeom finishes, a knot forming between his eyebrows while conversing with Bambam and Youngjae, since his Jackson hyung was obviously somewhere off to la la land.

“The name kind of sounds familiar, but If it was someone we knew, wouldn’t Jackson hyung know him as well?” Youngjae theorizes, licking a stray drop of melted strawberry ice cream off his finger, while side eyeing Jackson.

The younger two only stare at Youngjae in response. Suddenly, Youngjae feels really self conscious; why were the two just staring? Was there something on his face? He licks for the taste of strawberry on his lips to check if he missed another drop.

The other two’s jaws just drop to the ground.

It takes them a while to get their bearings together but then the two shares a loaded look between them, then promptly look back at Youngjae.

Youngjae, feeling a bit like a cornered lamb, turns to his Jackson hyung for help but suddenly Jackson was up on his feet, looking concerned towards Jinyoung’s apartment building.

…

He was floating. He feels the wind against his face, feels himself moving forward, but does not feel his legs moving. So he was floating.

Does this mean he’s dead? But why does it hurt to breathe, even in death?

Then it hits him all at once. The blinding sunlight beyond his red, swollen shut lids. The constant sharp sting of the red crisscrossed marks across his wrists. The bone deep tiredness that’s always weighed him down, still weighs him down as he now floats.

He realizes that he is not floating after all. Because he smells sandalwood, which means Jinyoung. Jinyoung must be carrying him.

Poor Jinyoung. Having to care for him again. He really should have just died.

Jinyoung stumbles and Mark feels himself get jarred. And it hurts. But he doesn’t fall. He wishes he does.

Maybe then he wouldn’t be such a burden—the cause of misery—to everyone around him.

Mark contemplates going slack, contemplates unhooking his legs and arms around Jinyoung.

Then, he does.

And he’s falling, falling, fallingfallingfalling.

Just like she was—but then someone catches him. And no, nobody caught her. He wasn’t there to catch her but someone was there for  ** _him_**.

Mark feels the seething rage build up quickly from within him, his bone tired arms, clawing desperately at his own wrists. And they’re bleeding again, he feels the thick blood on his fingertips but the person who caught him hugs him tightly, pushes his arms between their bodies, halting Mark’s attempts at scratching his wrists out.

He tries to struggle, resorts to beating his fists into the person’s chest, clawing where he can. He didn’t care—he was just  _so fucking angry._

He hears someone screaming. A scream filled with agony.

Later, after he wakes up in Jinyoung’s room with his wrists heavily bandaged, his hands saran wrapped into a fist, he realizes that he was the one screaming.

 

…

“I’m sorry, I haven’t been able to clean up and buy groceries (Because Mark needed someone to be with him and Jinyoung and Jaebum were only two people. But maybe it didn’t have to be just the two of them anymore, he thinks, as he looks at Jackson and the others.) But here are some snacks.” Jinyoung tells them, as he sets down a tray with steaming oolong tea cups and packets of wasabi peas.

They all sat around, drinking their teas and eating their peas, glancing periodically at the half cracked open door of Jinyoung’s bedroom, where a limp body slept peacefully.

But then Jackson remembers; he hated wasabi peas.

He slowly puts down the nearly empty packet, takes large consecutive gulps of tea, before staring straight at Jinyoung. But he backs down at the last minute and opts instead to pick at his black shirt, now stained with splotches of red; he vaguely recalls the shirt as his favorite.

“So, what the hell was that?” Jackson asks.

Jinyoung sighs, almost in relief but mostly from resignation. He knew the question was coming.

“That was Mark. He’s mine and Jaebum’s old friend. We sort of drifted away, shortly before Jaebum and I started hanging with you guys. His mom had called us over a month ago, begging us to come see Mark and be friends with him again. His ex-girlfriend had died a couple months ago. It—he was bad. He looked wrong. We’ve been trying our best since then but…” Jinyoung sighs. He needed a moment, and the others were willing to give it to him. Jinyoung almost wanted to smile; he had good friends. But almost as simultaneously as the thought crossed his mind, he frowned; because Mark didn’t have the same luxury. God, he’s such a shit friend.

Jinyoung sighs again. Rubbing his hands fiercely on his face.

“Two weeks ago, he was already getting better. But better isn’t really all that good, he was still crying himself to sleep every night, sometimes screaming himself hoarse, but when he wakes up, he’d try his best to smile(which was more of a grimace, really, but he tried and that was all that mattered) and he’d eat, then go lock himself in his room again. It doesn’t sound better, but the situation was so fucked up that that  _was_  what we considered better than what he was before. Then, two nights ago, I caught him slicing through his wrists. I- I don’t know what to do anymore.” Jinyoung finishes, not really knowing what he was trying to say, telling them the struggle that the past month was.

Jinyoung felt that as Mark’s friend, he shouldn’t have to ask for other’s help--he was Mark’s friend, damn it—but as he looked at all the sympathetic faces of his friends, he thinks that may be he wouldn’t be such a shit friend for asking more people to care for and befriend Mark.

Jinyoung's front door unlocks and in comes Jaebum.

"Sorry for not getting here sooner, the pharmacist messed up Mark's prescription and--oh." Jaebum trails off, as he finally realizes that Jinyoung's not the only one in the living room. He stands there in silence, the keys still hanging from his finger (and a small part of Jackson's mind questions why the hell Jaebum has a key to Jinyoung's place, but knew better than to even ponder about the duo's strange codependency) and his left shoe still in his grasp. 

  
Jinyoung promptly drags Jaebum off to the kitchen, right at the nook that couldn't be seen from the living room; keys and shoes at hand. They needed to talk about what to do with Mark.

…

“Jackson hyung, isn’t that—“ Bambam starts, gesturing towards Jinyoung’s half opened bedroom door.

“Keep it quiet Bambam. You too Yugyeom, Youngjae.” Jackson, interrupts softly, his voice oddly morose.

“But—“ Yugyeom begins to protest.

“Abort mission.” Jackson tells them, giving them a kind of feeble smile that they’ve never seen on the other’s face, while slowly reaching up to ruffle their hairs.

The younger ones usually hated it when he did this, but this time they let him without protest; he looked like he needed it.

…

They don’t hear from Jinyoung and Jaebum about Mark for the next few days.

The incident with Mark was like a cloud that hung itself above all of their heads. That’s what it felt like for Jackson, at least.

Until he gets home, falls asleep, then wakes up to his phone ringing.

Nobody calls him this late at night. Nobody but the boy with the bleeding heart. Nobody but Mark.

He considers picking it up but Mark has already made the decision for him. The ringing stops.

He waits a while, even after the phone pings, his head laid atop of his arms as he stares at the utterly boring beige ceiling that he had. He thinks that maybe he should repaint his room.

What color though? Something that’s not boring. Maybe red? He looks over at his phone. Yeah, maybe red.

**You have 1 new voice message**

_Hey, I’m sorry I haven’t called in a while._

Jackson immediately sits up, almost knocking over his lamp in the process. Mark sounded calm. His voice was still deep, but it was smooth, like freshly tempered chocolate.

_Things haven’t been going well. I-I have to—I want to see you. One last time. Please. Meet me at Old Ching’s roof top._

Then the line dies. Jackson feels like he’s the line. Or that Mark, just like the line did, will die too.

_How can he see her, if she’s dead?_

Jackson doesn’t really want to acknowledge the logical answer to that question. He doesn’t want to think about how easy it was, to fall from an old rickety building’s rooftop. How soft flesh will be stained red--how Mark’s blood can be the paint to the asphalt road’s canvas.

He fires off a quick text. Puts on his jacket and runs to the old run down building of Old Ching’s, hoping and praying that he wasn’t late the whole way.

Jackson’s phone, left behind on top of his bed in his haste, makes a small ping. It echoes loudly throughout the empty room.

…

It’s cold.

He’s wearing a tank top and thin pajama pants. He’s also barefoot. So, of course it was cold.

The cold wind softly brushes through the vermillion wisps of his hair, almost caressing his face-- like a lover’s embrace. He almost leans into the wind, but the railing he’s leaning on creaks ominously. He looks down, beyond the rusted railings, onto the dirty asphalt road beneath the building.

A small ping distracts him from his observation. He’s mildly surprised that someone contacted him. He was sure that Jinyoung was still out, doing his joint project with his Uni friends--pulling an all nighter in order to make the deadline. Mark feels guilty, no doubt in his mind that he had a hand in that, somehow.

He checks the message;

_I’m not your girlfriend. I’m not even a girl. I’m sorry._

Mark wanted to laugh. He knew that the number he’s been leaving voice messages to, wasn’t Suzy’s. He’d been the one to help arrange the close of her cellular account, after all.

He responds with,  _I know._

He’d realized that he’d called a stranger, the morning after he left his first voice mail. He had actually spent a part of that day, worrying about what the other person would say, how they would respond—gods Mark was even making unknown strangers suffer because of him.

But there was no response. And that night, Mark felt like leaving a message for Suzy again. So he called the same number and left a voice mail once again. And again, no response.

The same thing kept happening, him leaving a message, the other person listening—he presumes so (he hopes so, within his heart of hearts)—but never responding.

This should disappoint Mark, the lack of a response, but instead it empowered him. It felt like he had found someone who would just listen. He found an outlet for all the things he couldn’t say but wanted to.

The phone calls made him lighter in the mornings after. The phone calls were making him better. During those couple weeks, he felt as if he were moving forward for once, that he wasn’t stuck in the same place as everyone else left him behind.

But then, the nightmare happened.

Suzy, she was crying and screaming and clawing at him. Shouting at him,  _how dare you try to live and forget while I died loving you?!_

And when he woke up on his sofa, the chrome knife set that was proudly displayed on the kitchen counter gleamed at him.

His skin was like a soft peach, easily cut open by the knife, his juices spilling, spilling, spilling.

(Mark liked peaches.)

Then, almost out of habit, he calls the same number that he’s been calling for the past few weeks and talks into the receiver. He doesn’t remember much of what he says--he never does, because during those times he would only let his heart do the talking, not his brain—but he knows that the stranger probably knows that he cut his own skin. That he liked the pain.

It wasn’t like he liked it. He felt indifferent at the thought of doing it again, but at the time, it felt right. In order to wake himself up or make him sleep forever; either way would have been fine for him.

He just wished that Jinyoung hadn’t seen him like that. He saw clear as day how much caring for him has been weighing his friend down. The hunched over shoulders, heavy bags beneath his eyes, chapped, abused lips and morose, downturned eyes. He’s seen those on his own mother—on himself, when he had been trying to break up with Suzy, gently; trying to make her see reason. That it would be better if they parted.

Parted they did. (Till death do us part. The priest says. Mark has never liked going to weddings.)

It’s not until someone grabs him by the arm and drags him back, does he realize that he was probably leaning a little too close over the rickety railing.

…

“What are you doing?” Jackson, asks as he lets go of Mark’s arm, after he’s pulled him back far enough away from the railing. He moves to stand in front of Mark, his body blocking Mark’s view of the rusted railings and the asphalt awaiting beyond it.

Mark seemed dazed for a second before asking him; “Who are you?”

Jackson’s stance immediately softens, his demeanor suddenly changing into hesitance. Mark probably thinks that Jackson’s a random stalker, or worse, he might think he was the one who sent him the text. So he blurts out the fastest lie he could think of.

“I was about to eat pork belly strips, when I saw you wandering around. You might not remember me, but I’m Jackson, one of the guys who, uh, helped you get to Jinyoung’s apartment?” He ends his statement as a question, nervously fiddling with his snap back, taking it off to comb through his hair before putting it back on again.

Mark just stares at him in response.

“You were about to eat pork belly strips, at one o’clock in the morning?” Mark says slowly, as if Jackson was the one who was more mentally impaired between the two of them. Jackson wasn’t the one going out into the night at winter in a tank top with no shoes on!

“Yes. And you’re out at one o’clock in the morning, during winter, on a dingy building’s roof top in a tank and bare feet. How do you like your pork belly strips cooked?” Jackson replies in a deadpan voice, not believing how ridiculous everything was right now.

Then, the most unbelievable thing happens. He hears a laugh. It is admittedly rusty sounding, more of a guffaw, and rather short lived but enough to have the person laughing wheeze.

Mark was laughing.

Admittedly, at Jackson’s expense,  _but Mark is laughing._

Jackson couldn’t even bring himself to be indignant and instead joins Mark in laughing. His hyena like laugh, prompts the other boy to laugh even more. Which in turn made Jackson laugh more, and it soon spiraled down into a vicious cycle of laughter.

After what seems like forever, they find themselves wheezing on their backs on the roof top’s floor, holding on to their cramping stomachs, and trying to regain their breathing.

Once they’ve calmed down, they remained lying down. They looked up at the stars.

Jackson has the urge to hold Mark’s hand. He tries to tamper it down. But Jackson Wang has always been impulsive. Too little self control, too many impulses.

So he takes Mark’s hand in his and turns his head to look at Mark watch the stars, his fingers tangling with Jackson’s. He’s about to ask Mark once again,  _what was he doing here?_

But Mark’s hand is cold, way too cold. How long had they’ve been outside?

“Mark, we should get you back to Jinyoung’s. He must be worried sick by now.” Jackson prompts, as he sits up, looking down at Mark’s still laid out form.

“He’s out finishing a project; he said he’d be back tomorrow morning at five o’clock. He thought I’d just sleep through his absence, but I wanted to go out.”

“Ahh, did you bring a key with you?”

“No. I made sure to lock the door before I left though.” Jackson lets go of Mark’s hand. He’s fixing his snapback again.

Jackson remains silent. He tries not to think of what this implies—tries not to assume.  _But why would he lock the door, without a key, then go to a rooftop in the middle of the night?_

Why would anyone.

So he gets up, starts dusting himself, and then, gently because he’s afraid he might bruise Mark (peaches are so easily bruised), he lifts him up as well.

Mark does a perfect imitation of a sack of rice, because even though Jackson is helping him up, he seems not to care for trying to get up himself.  He lets himself be dead weight, and Jackson huffs—it’s a small laugh he tries to smother, because he doesn’t know if he should encouraging this kind of behavior from Mark—before giving up and hugging Mark’s torso to lift up his whole body and put him on his feet.

Mark stands on his own two feet, thankfully. He does shiver though, once Jackson lets go. Jackson huffs once again, this time the small laugh was thick but audible. He takes off his jacket and puts it on Mark.

Mark just looks at him, as if carefully reassessing him once again. 

“C’mon. Let’s go get pork belly strips. I heard that they’re good to eat at around one o’clock in the morning.” Jackson says as he loops his arms around Mark’s shoulders and drags him to the stairwell.

Mark lets out a short laugh, before turning to Jackson with a wide smile, the first Jackson’s seen clearly (this night was just filled with many firsts, wasn’t it), and tells him that it was already two o’clock in the morning.

Jackson just huffs in reply, and mutters a small  _smartass_  off to the side, before continuing to drag the redhead along with him to scourge the streets for an open stall that sold pork belly strip at two o’clock in the morning.

Jinyoung wasn’t too impressed, when he shows up in front of the stall in a disheveled state hours later; his hair askew, clothes rumpled and bruised heavy eye bags hanged off his lower lids. Mark seems momentarily cowed, but Jackson just gestures with an exaggerated  _‘what can you do’_ pose, with his shoulders dropping up and down, then promptly laughs and hooks his arm around Mark’s shoulders. Mark relaxes and he cracks a small smile in return, before shooting Jinyoung an apologetic look.

Jinyoung waves it off and tells them that all is forgiven if they buy him meat.

They do, but Jinyoung later gets the feeling that something happened, when they tell him that he can’t order pork belly strips because it wasn’t one o’clock in the morning anymore. Mark was smiling and laughing a little, if a bit sparingly. But it was more than he’d ever seen from the boy for the past few months he’s been trying to help him.

More friends  _do_ help. And if it stings a bit, the fact that he couldn’t do whatever it was that Jackson did to make Mark smile and laugh, hanging out with a happier Mark more than made up for it.

He secretly snaps a picture of the two, as they laugh, Jackson’s arm hooked around Mark’s shoulders, and sends it to Jaebum. He captioned it,  _Christmas came early._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark felt like shit. But he learns that it's alright to feel that way.

It wasn’t all rainbows and unicorns, afterwards.

 

Most days, Mark would lock himself in the guest bedroom. The sounds he make when inside were heart wrenching. But the days when he locks himself up are fewer and farther in between. He makes an effort, even when it hurts (and it hurts), to be there with them—to be happy and enjoy the moment.

He feels the weakest on days when he can’t even get up from the bed. When Suzy’s image flash before his eyes. When he thinks about why he’s so week.

How he’s only a burden.

A waste of space.

Of air.

Of life.

 

But then, Jinyoung would always be there in the morning, sipping his second cup of coffee with a plate of steaming hot pancakes waiting for Mark.

> Mark’s feet felt like lead as he trudged out of the bedroom—it was one of those days where it took him a very long time, and an inner battle with himself, before he can get up from his bed.
> 
> The kitchen lights are on and Jinyoung’s sitting on the table. His first two cups of coffee already empty and desolate. His third cup, almost empty, held warmly in his hands.
> 
> There was a plate of steaming hot pancakes in front of him. But Jinyoung didn’t really eat breakfast? Usually, at this time, he would be gone or hurrying to get to class.
> 
> “Good morning, want some breakfast?” Jinyoung greets casually, smiling slightly as he tips his head towards the stack of pancakes, as if he hadn’t woken up extra early to make the pancakes (because he knew that he was probably going to burn at least half of the pancakes he tries to cook and he wanted Mark to at least eat a decent stack of four).
> 
> “Uhh…”
> 
> Mark didn’t know what to say first. Shouldn’t you be in class? Or I don’t really eat breakfast, or at all sometimes, because I’m afraid you’ll smell my puke in the bathroom later on? Or I didn’t know you could cook?
> 
> But what he says instead is; “Thank you, do we have maple syrup?”
> 
> Because it was clear to see--the eye bags under Jinyoung’s eyes and the red patched on his arms and fingers and the mess of flour on the counter behind him--that Jinyoung put in a lot of effort for Mark. The least he could do was to eat the food and discreetly hide evidence of his upchuck.
> 
> Besides, he didn’t have to eat breakfast every day. It’s not like jinyoung will cook for him every morning (although a small voice inside Mark’s head tells him that the warmth under his belly wasn’t because of the pancakes—but he doesn’t listen to that voice because he doesn’t want to be a burden).
> 
> He swallows down the pancakes with the syrup, they feel sticky and mushy, and he feels like throwing them up already. But Jinyoung’s soft smile, as he watches Mark eat, over his textbook, keeps Mark swallowing.
> 
> When he’s done, he puts the dishes on the sink and Jinyoung tells him to just leave it. Jinyoung asks him what his plans for the day are and he answers nothing—or maybe Jackson and the maknaes were coming over.
> 
> Jinyoung nods and packs up his things. He leaves with a good bye.
> 
> Mark find out, the next morning, week, month—that he was wrong. Every morning, sometimes even past noon (for days when the sky felt like it was fallingfallingfalling), Jinyoung would wait for him to wake up. Breakfast at the ready.
> 
> It becomes a regular occurrence and Mark’s since then been comfortable enough to confide in Jinyoung that sometimes, he wouldn’t be able to eat the breakfast Jinyoung prepares, because he’s afraid he might puke it back out or it feels too much like lead in his mouth so he couldn’t swallow them down. Jinyoung listens.
> 
> And Jinyoung continues to wait for him to wake up, with breakfast ready on his side of the table, and a smile with a greeting of “Good morning.”
> 
> And he leaves, when Mark finishes telling him of his plans for the day, with the same soft smile and a wave.
> 
> Mark later finds out that Jinyoung had been failing the English Literature class that he had during the mornings because he came in so late or missed class too much.
> 
> Mark felt like a huge burden and told Jinyoung that he really shouldn’t have done that. Jinyoung merely shrugs nonchalantly, hooking an arm around Mark’s shoulders, and telling him; “I’d rather be absent in class than be absent when my friend needs me. I can just take the class again but I can’t take back the times that I wasn’t there for you, Mark. So just let this loser of a University student be a pillar of support to you, okay?”
> 
> Mark feels the same warmth underneath his belly again (and he didn’t even eat breakfast today).

 

Or Jackson who throws rocks at Jinyoung's apartment windows, exactly right after he's had a particularly bad cry on the phone, with a bag of dukkbokki and strawberry milk on hand.

 

> His eyes were swollen shut but even he could still discern Jackson’s form outside the window. Who else wears shorts and a tank top in the dead of night at Seoul? Let alone how many of those people actually throw rocks at his window at 12 o’clock in the evening?
> 
> He knows this means that Jackson wants to come in, but Mark’s a mess. His hair is crumpled, his night shirt is stained with tears and snot, his eyes are swollen shut and his throat burns like a motherfucker.
> 
> But Jackson keeps throwing rocks and Mark starts to worry for Jinyoung’s window because the rocks kept getting bigger and bigger in size. He decides to just let Jackson in after all. He didn’t want to cause Jinyoung more trouble than he already has.
> 
> He opens the window and narrowly misses getting hit by a particularly large rock.
> 
> Mark lets out a scratchy “YAH!” before realizing that its 12 in the fucking morning and people were trying to sleep damn it.
> 
> He immediately glares down at Jackson’s laughing form at the concrete. Mark contemplates just leaving him to freeze to death but the word death stings a little too much and so he rings Jackson up.
> 
> Mark wonders why Jackson’s here, at this ungodly hour, just when he’s done crying himself hoarse on his cell phone’s receiver once again. Just when he felt like he was breaking to pieces once again—that he needed someone to hold the pieces together, for just a little while, when he can take over again.
> 
> Jackson comes in to his room. Mark startles.
> 
> How the—“Jinyoung’s hiding spot for the spare key is really predictable.” Jackson says, in reply to Mark’s bewildered look, holding the key up and shaking it side to side.
> 
> He jumps onto the bed with Mark, jostling the red head and forcing him to make space for the noisy brunette.
> 
> He takes out the contents of the plastic bag he was carrying. It was dukkbokki and strawberry milk.
> 
> These were Mark’s favorites but he didn’t think Jackson knew that, did he?
> 
> Jackson immediately starts chattering away, his form huddling together with Mark, fighting over pieces of dukkbokki and stealing sips of strawberry milk from each other’s bottles. Mark lets it all lull him to a sense of calm. As if Jackson’s presence washed away the tear stains on his cheeks. Mark goes to sleep at 3 o’clock in the morning that day. But he also slept with a smile, so he guesses that the eye bags were worth it.

 

Or JB who knows when to herald the others away because Mark's tense frame is starting to show the strain it took, for him to try and be happy alongside them when he feels the exact opposite.

 

> Mark’s chest felt tight. As if something wanted to burst from inside it. As if something was slowly but surely filling his lungs and struggling to get out. Mark felt like throwing up and locking himself in his room.
> 
> But.
> 
> But it was movie night. But Jinyoung was having fun throwing popcorn at Youngjae’s open mouth as he slept partway through the movie. But Yugyeom and Jackson were having such a fun time poking fun at Bambam’s poor imitation of the heroine. But Jaebum was smiling happily as he laughed at the other’s antiques.
> 
> But Mark didn’t want to ruin this perfectly good night for them.
> 
> So he tries to just breathe. In. Out.
> 
> Then he stops because it just made him want to hack out whatever was inside his lungs more.
> 
> Mark starts feeling trapped, his palms get sweaty. He feels helpless, as he shifts uneasily.
> 
> Jackson’s giving him a look now. Oh god, was Mark already ruining the night?
> 
> Before he could dwell more on his thoughts, Jaebum yawns loudly, his arms flailing out exaggeratedly, bumping the two maknaes on the head accidentally(not).
> 
> “It’s late, I think we should all get to sleep. Nobody’s going to go home this late by themselves, besides, the trains are out by now. I’ll help Jinyoung set up the air bed. Jackson help with the blankets. Bambam and Yugyeom, fix Youngjae up on the couch, he’s gonna get a crick on his neck if he sleeps like that.” Jaebum instructs, minimal grumblings could be heard from the maknae line but otherwise, everyone followed his lead.
> 
> Mark felt a bit out of place, what with not having anything instructed for him. But he’s relieved. He feels bad that he’s relieved but he is. Sometimes people get to be too much.
> 
> Jaebum brushes past him, quietly whispering; “You go on ahead to your room, Mark hyung. Get a good night’s sleep, ‘kay?”
> 
> Jaebum gives him his signature eye smile before moving on to follow Jinyoung.
> 
> Jaebum knew and understood. That almost made Mark cry in relief. God, he was thankful for these friends he’s been given.

 

Or Youngjae, with his earnest face and sincere smiles and awkward attempts at joking in order to cheer Mark up.

 

> Jinyoung's apartment has always been the go to place for their (his now too-- Mark thinks with a twinge of happiness) friends to hang out or run off to.
> 
>  
> 
> Therefore, Mark wasn't surprised to walk in to the apartment, carrying the groceries he bought earlier, and see Youngjae quietly doing his homework at the living room couch.
> 
>  
> 
> This has happened a couple times already, the younger boy frequently needed to study in a quiet place that he was comfortable with. The library, if Jinyoung's is crowded already and Jinyoung's, if it's empty. Mark tries to stay quiet during these times but surprisingly, Youngjae stops studying to talk to him.
> 
>  
> 
> "Ne, hyung, what are you doing?" Youngjae asks while peering curiously over Mark's shoulder as the older boy carefully takes out the items inside the plastic bag.
> 
>  
> 
> "I'm cooking dukkbokki in extra spicy sauce for Jackson. After I’m done cooking it, you want some?" Mark replies, looking over his shoulder at Youngjae for confirmation.
> 
>  
> 
> Yiungjae's face is scrunched up in confusion and his head is tilted at an angle.
> 
>  
> 
> "Uhh, hyung, did Jackson hyung do something mean to you?" He asks, his eyes almost shining in their imploring look.
> 
>  
> 
> "No? Not more than usual anyway, why do you ask?" Mark asks as he turns away to open the lid of the spicy red paste, he takes a dollop on his finger and pops it into his mouth. He licks it clean before thinking, did I really buy the extra spicy one? It didn't taste all that spicy to Mark. He takes another dollop, this time, in order to ask Youngjae's opinion.
> 
> "Well, Jackson hyung doesn't really eat spicy foods. He gets really red in the face and feels like throwing up whenever he does..."
> 
>  
> 
> Mark's surprised, Jackson was the one who always brought him dukkbokki in the middle of the night, so he assumed that it was Jackson's favorite as well.
> 
>  
> 
> Mark raises an incredulous eyebrow and opens his mouth to ask if the other boy is sure but Youngjae interrupts him. (Good thing too, who was Mark to go around thinking he knew Jackson better than Youngjae who knew Jackson long before he did?)
> 
>  
> 
> "I-I mean, I could be wrong. I'm sure Jackson hyung would eat anything that you make for him Mark hyung." Youngjae tries to placate and Mark just finds his earnest expression so endearing that he had to just push his sauce covered finger into Youngjae's mouth to make it stop.
> 
>  
> 
> Youngjae doesn't register what Mark's put in his mouth for the first few seconds before his face absolutely explodes. Youngjae runs around the kitchen flailing, yelling "hot, hot, hot!" at the top of his lungs.
> 
> Suffice to say, Mark didn't make dukkbokki that night. And the next time Jackson throws rocks at his window late at night, with the customary strawberry milk and dukkbokki in hand, Mark watches Jaskson very closely as they ate. His face was as red as a tomato the whole time; Mark's never noticed or just chalked it up to the cold night air before, but now he knows better.
> 
> Mark hides a hot sauce stained smile.

 

Or Yugyeom with his contagious smile and his persistence to burrow into Mark's personal space when he feels particularly withrawn.

 

> Mark was tired, his jaws hurt from trying to smile too much, and his body felt bruised from all the rough housing they did earlier. And as everyone huddles together and just lay on each other, Mark scoots away into a recliner, opting to feel out his sores in his lonesome.
> 
> As he watches them, their—his—group of friends, he feels a pang go through him. He feels doubt slice through the haze of happiness he’s been trying to lull himself into.
> 
> Would he have met these people, had he not been such a mess?
> 
> Are they only friends with him now, because they pity him? Because they feel obligated to be nice to him?
> 
> The thoughts churned at Mark’s insides.
> 
> He didn't think he could take it, if they were. (If Jackson--)
> 
>  
> 
> He gets jostled out of his thoughts as he feels another body plough onto him. He looks down to find Yugyoem smiling closed-eyed up at him from where he rested his head snugly on top of Mark’s bruised abdomen.
> 
>  
> 
> "It looked lonely over here, so Yugyoem-ie came over to give warmth~" He says, in an overtly high pitch voice, with added aegyo and eye smile. (Yugyeom only ever tries aegyo when he feels like it’ll get him something he wants or cheer up his loved ones.)
> 
>  
> 
> Mark doesn't have the energy to protest and just allows Yugyeom to burrow into him in the recliner.
> 
> Until all the others become jealous and eventually crowd around the previously lonely recliner.
> 
>  
> 
> And Mark was warm again. Surrounded by their warmth and happiness.
> 
>  
> 
> Mark didn't have time to think of his doubts for the rest of the night.
> 
>  

Or Bambam with his sly winks and jokes and little token offerings—a slingshot, a lollipop and in one interesting instance, a condom—would always try to snag him into the group’s antics.

 

> Bambam throws a box at him.
> 
> It takes Mark a couple of moments to process that Bambam threw a box of condoms at him.
> 
>  
> 
> “uhh...” Mark lets out, as he tries to figure out what to say. Thank you? Or what the fuck? (Or do I really look like I’m in the position to get laid, the guy who can’t even go a day without breaking down crying?)
> 
>  
> 
> “No need to thank me, hyung. Just looking out for you. You need to protect yourself, you know? God knows where Jackson hyung’s saber’s been.” Bambam tells Mark cheerfully, winking and raising a thumbs up, as if throwing a box of condoms at friends was the norm.
> 
>  
> 
> Mark’s still for a moment. Trying to process Bambam’s words—the hyperactive boy has always been a little hard to follow, Mark finds.
> 
>  
> 
> “Uhm, thank you? And Jackson’s what?”
> 
> “Saber~~!”Bambam replies with a teasing tone, his eyebrows wriggling up and down. Mark wonders where Bambam learns such things, nobody in the group was this—oh, Jackson.
> 
> “What’s that?” Mark tilts his head curiously. He winces, as he feels a crick on his neck—probably from last night’s call.
> 
> “You know--the metal stick that Jackson hyung uses to poke people with. Can’t believe it’s an Olympic sport—anyone versed with a fly swatter could do just as well.” Bambam tells Mark flippantly, rolling his eyes, his voice betraying his underlying jealousy at the older male’s participation in the Olympics.
> 
> “Don’t listen to him hyung, he’s just jealous that his greatest achievement of starring in a commercial was topped by Jackson hyung. But… do you not know that Jackson hyung fences?” Yugyeom cuts in, hip checking Bambam into the couch, and peering up at Mark’s perplexed face.
> 
> “I—I didn’t know… he went to the Olympics?”
> 
> “What? You really don’t know, hyung?! I, for sure, thought that you’d be sick of hearing it from Jackson hyung by now—he wouldn’t shut up about fencing when we first met him! Plus, he’s actually attending Uni here under a fencing scholarship. Don’t tell him I ever said this but he is damn good. He deserved to go to the Olympics, honestly.” Bambam exclaims, sentences flowing from his mouth nonstop. Mark was really starting to get dizzy at this point.
> 
> “I-um, he’s never really mentioned it to me?” Mark weakly answers back to the expectant faces of his dongsaengs.
> 
> Yugyeom looks at him for along moment. “Huh.”
> 
> Bambam looked like he wanted to say more but Yugyeom dutifully drags him away to the kitchen to get more snacks.
> 
> Mark’s thankful—sometimes interacting with the hyper active boy was getting to be too tiring. Like energy was getting sapped from him. It’s starting to get easier to be around people but it was still hard and Mark sometimes felt like cotton was getting stuffed into all open orifices—he couldn’t breathe or think and—Mark takes a deep breath.
> 
> In. Out.
> 
> He rests his head back on the sofa with a sigh before feeling something digging into his back. He picks it out and remembers—condoms.
> 
> He flushes red and quickly hides the box at the very back of his closet. He didn’t think it was coming out of there any time soon.
> 
>  
> 
>  

He felt like shit.

He felt like shit every time he tried getting up from bed.

He felt like shit every time he had to gulp down breakfast, because Jinyoung went through the trouble of cooking for him, even if he knows that he’s only going to throw it up later.

He felt like shit every time he’s just cried his heart out but Jackson’s there and how could he say no?

He felt like shit whenever he can’t get himself to be with everyone else and be as happy and merry as them—Jaebum stepping in when it becomes too much sometimes made him feel like shit too; because he knows.

He felt like shit every time he distances himself from them because he doesn’t want to but he can’t help it and Yugyeom’s trying his best to burrow his body into Mark’s.

He felt like shit when Youngjae would earnestly smile at him, genuinely believing in him as he struggles to maintain the façade of being okay—of becoming okay.

He felt like shit when he couldn’t match Bambam’s enthusiasm and follow him merrily into his crazy antics—because Mark is a rock on the bottom of sea and Bambam and the others were the free-roaming sea gulls who are held back by him.

He felt like shit but he didn’t want to show this to the people who now surround him with love.

Mark wants to get better.

And that was the only thought he ever needed to start over again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jinyoung's not happy with the new addition to his home. But at least Mark was smiling.

Mark gets better.

 

> Mark was shy and reserved in the beginning but he became closer friends with the rest of the younger ones. Especially after Jackson annoys him so much with all his prompting for Mark to talk, that he yells at him; “YAH, learn to respect your elders! I’ll talk when I want to.”
> 
> The others were in stupefied silence for all of 0.1 of a second before they all burst into laughter, pointing at Jackson in mirth and giving Mark high fives and hugs. (More than laughing at Jackson's expense, they were happy because Mark was getting out of his shell more fully.)
> 
> Jackson pouts and pretends to be hurt. He waddles (because how can he even walk in those kinds of pants? Those couldn’t even be called MC Hammer pants anymore) over to the small nook in the kitchen that can’t be seen in the living room and proceeds to squat there.
> 
> Mark sighs and shakes his head, telling his dongsaengs that he’ll just go get them some snacks, then heads to the kitchen to wheedle Jackson back into the living room.
> 
> “Jacks. Jacksooon. Come back to the living room with me? I have snaaacks.” Mark says, trying to sweet talk Jackson from his sulking by bribing him with food. He’s learned that the other boy is easily swayed by promise of food, long ago.
> 
> Jackson huffs and tells Mark that bribing him with food could only work so many times. He wasn’t an easy man, he’ll have you know!
> 
> Marks tries to stifle a smile, thinking that if he told Jackson how cute he was being right now, the other would be even more against coming back into the living room with him. He silently puts down the food tray and quietly tips toes his way towards Jackson’s turned back.
> 
> He uses his hands to cover Jackson’s eyes and whispers to him “Guess who?”, but the other startles so much that both of them loses their balance and they fall into a heap on the floor.
> 
> Mark quickly sits up, realizing that Jackson made sure to fall forward instead of back, in order not to hurt Mark. He smiles a bit at his thoughtfulness before fully registering the fact that Jackson was groaning quietly in pain. He gets off of him and kneels down on the floor besides Jackson’s prone form. He turns him around, so he can look at the injury better. Mark can’t see quite clearly so leans in closer to Jackson’s face, dutifully telling Jackson to get his hand out of the way and let Mark check it out.
> 
> Mark’s face was close enough, that Jackson could feel his small inhale and exhale of air. He stays still, trying not to move so that Mark could quickly get off (or continue to get closer, Jackson would take what he can get).
> 
> Then Mark, bless his doe eyes, finally spots the small scratch on Jackson’s eyebrow and huffs a small laugh. Jackson feels it wash over him, and suddenly his heart is beating just as fast as the day he competed in the youth Olympics.
> 
> Then Mark pecks his wound. This was nothing new, they always did this whenever someone was about to get hurt because of a punishment game, like takbam or a wrist flick. But this time, it catches Jackson completely off guard, because this was different. It felt different somehow.
> 
> And Mark was still so close, close enough to kiss, if he just lifted his face a few more millimeters…
> 
> Then Bambam walks in. (Of course he does, that boy could win the Guinness world record for worse timing ever.)
> 
> “Ne, hyung, what is taking you so long? We’re starv—oh. Am I interrupting something?” Bambam asks, none too innocently, after cutting off his own whining. This cheeky bastard.
> 
> Mark only laughs in response and tells Bambam to take the food tray he had already prepared. Bambam nods, and winks at Jackson before leaving with his spoils, as Mark turns around to look for the band aids.
> 
> In the end, Jackson gets stuck with only wasabi peas left (his dongsaengs were really pushing their luck with him, he’ll get them someday soon) to snack on and a Hello Kitty band aid across his left eyebrow.
> 
> Not to mention, whenever Mark wasn’t around—and even sometimes when he was—Bambam and Yugyeom took to teasing him about what happened in the kitchen with abandoned glee.
> 
> Youngjae was definitely his favorite dongsaeng.

 

He’s happy, especially when Jackson was around.

 

> They were all watching a movie, Iron Man 3, the one Jackson has been raving about since forever. The motion picture’s a little bit blurry, but what else could they expect from a boot leg copy? Thankfully, subtitles were available. But they, of course, had to be in Chinese.
> 
> Jackson was fluent in both Chinese and English, while Mark knew English well and Chinese somewhat (He could understand a bit of Cantonese when spoken but Chinese writing was almost impossible for him to read) and so the group figured that was all they needed to watch and understand the movie.
> 
> Too bad they hadn’t taken into account the fact that Jackson would give them wrong translations just to fuck with them and that Mark would just nod along with whatever Jackson was saying while biting his lip to hold in his laughter.
> 
> So there they were, all bright eyed and eagerly awaiting the start of the movie, already placed comfortably (as comfortable as they possibly can, being squished in a five seater couch, with six other dudes—which wasn’t really very comfortable, they’d soon realize after getting up to stretch at the conclusion of the movie) against each other. The pop corn was nearly gone, fifteen minutes into the movie. Mostly because Jackson can’t keep his mouth shut as he chewed and translated at the same time, so there lay many fallen kernels on the carpeted floor. Jaebum smacks him in the back of the head for that. Jinyoung had just vacuumed the carpet earlier.
> 
> By the end of the movie, only Jackson and Mark are laughing and actually enjoyed the movie while everyone was slowly seething from the realization that the duo probably lied to them about what the actors were saying.
> 
> From their combined understanding from the lies that the terrible two had fed them, the movie was about Iron Man stopping the Mandarin’s covert operation of smuggling fireworks in the U.S., in order to establish Chinese new years as a formal holiday around the world, starting with America.
> 
> In the end, the other five decided to pounce on the two and pelt them with pillows. Mark and Jackson laugh and team up together (the two of them against the world) to fight the overwhelming army of Commander Im Jaebum. And they lose but they lose with honor as Mark successfully hits the back of Jaebum’s head with a paperback of “A Walk to Remember”.
> 
> And the epic pillow fight of ’14 concluded and the rest was history.

 

Mark’s parents are thankful for Mark’s recovery and of course, they love Jackson, oh and the others too. But evidently, not as much as they liked Jackson.

 

> Everyone was fidgeting. Jaebum was fixing his tie for the fifth time now, Bambam’s knee couldn’t stop going up and down, Yugyeom sits on it to make it stop but his own shakiness doesn’t help either. And Jinyoung’s pretty sure that Youngjae has eaten his fifth cookie by now, but it’s fine because Jinyoung couldn’t stop himself from baking more and more. Everyone was absolutely nervous. After all, Mark’s parents were coming in to check in and although Mark has been getting better during his stay here, this visit will decide if they’ll let Mark continue to live with Jinyoung.
> 
> Everyone has already taken a liking to the redhead and they’d be heartbroken if Mark couldn’t stay. If his parents were to decide they didn’t like his new group of friends, then they’ll take Mark with them back to Los Angeles. None of them had a high enough paying job to be able to make frequent trips there.
> 
> So everything had to be perfect. Absolutely perfect.
> 
> Of course everything is ruined before it’s even begun when Jinyoung sees that its already passed five o’clock, the time when he and Mark were supposed to go out and pick up his parents from the airport, and Mark was still not back with Jackson from the store. Baking soda was not that hard to find, damn it.
> 
> So just when Jinyoung’s given up on life, i.e. just letting Youngjae eat almost all of the cookies, and leaving to go pick up Mark’s parents by himself—the front door opens.
> 
> And in comes Mark and Jackson, Jackson’s hyena laugh at full blast, which only served to irritate Jinyoung even more. Does he even care that Mark’s parents might hate them and take Mark away?
> 
> Jinyoung goes to yell at them, already letting out a loud “Yah!”, before quickly stopping himself cold.
> 
> Mark’s parents come in after them and his tone of voice stutters down into—“Ahh, welcome Mr. and Mrs. Tuan! I—um, would you like some cookies?”
> 
> Hearing this, everyone who were previously being nervous messes quickly stood up and met the couple at the entrance way, bowing a full ninety degrees while stuttering out their own greetings.
> 
> The atmosphere was tense and awkward and for a moment, Jinyoung was tempted to just start packing Mark’s clothes just to get over the whole thing faster—obviously Mark’s parents were not going to let their son be taken care of by a couple of stuttering, awkward morons.
> 
> Then, with a completely serious tone of voice, Mr. Tuan says; “Only if its oatmeal cookies with yogurt covered raisins.”
> 
> If possible, the air became even more heavy. Shit, Jinyoung had baked everything from chocolate chip cookies to peanut butter strudel but of course he hadn’t thought to make oatmeal fucking yogurt covered raisin cookies.
> 
> Then Jackson bursts out laughing, patting the Mr. Tuan’s back and wheezing out a “good one, Papa Tuan!”.
> 
> And everyone just stares. Except Jackson and "Papa Tuan" who were both laughing heartily and Mark and Mrs. Tuan who were wearing wry smiles as they shook their heads in unison.
> 
> Then Mr. Tuan stops laughing and approaches Jinyoung, slapping his back and telling him to relax a little. He was kidding. He preferred good old chocolate chip anyway, which he claims he could smell was being baked from the apartment, a mile away. (In truth, Jackson told the Tuans, as if sharing a top secret, that everyone was absolutely nervous to meet them and that Jinyoung was the most nervous of them all—baking enough cookies to feed the Korean army in his nervousness.)
> 
> Jinyoung stutters and blushes and everyone was still flustered during the twenty minutes after the nice couple arrived but by the end of the night, everyone was laughing over warm cups of tea and sugary sweet cookies.
> 
> Mark and Jackson later explains that Mark’s parent’s flight came early so they rushed to pick them up and had forgotten to let anyone know. Mark apologizes to Jinyoung for failing to buy the baking soda he wanted. Jackson adds that it was a good thing they didn’t buy it, there was too much damn cookies already. He gets slapped in the back of his head for that, courtesy of Jaebum.
> 
> The Tuans leave, giving everyone a hug and a kiss in the cheek, and an additional mean noogie from Mr. Tuan in Jackson’s case, before heading out with homemade cookies in tow.
> 
> Jackson insists on walking them out with Mark, so they let him, but the others do keep a close eye on them from Jinyoung’s apartment window.
> 
> Right before they get into the taxi, after fussing over Mark one last time, Mr. Tuan pulls Jackson into a tight hug and whispers something to his ear before pulling away and smacking Jackson’s back, smiling. Jackson only laughs in response and says something back while hooking his arm around Mark’s shoulder.
> 
> Then they leave. Jinyoung sighs and let’s himself fall into a boneless heap on the floor. Everyone pretty much does the same. And when Mark and Jackson comes back up, everyone bulldozes Mark into a tight hug; forming a huge ball of tangled limbs and sweet smelling breath.
> 
> Mark was home.

 

And most days, Jinyoung feels as if Jackson’s at his apartment more times than he himself is there.

 

> “Yah, Jinyoungie! Why is there no more Milk? Didn’t I write it down on your grocery list on the fridge to buy more?” Jackson exclaims loudly, at ass o’clock in the fucking morning.
> 
> “Muh?” Was the best Jinyoung could do. In his defense, he had to pull another all nighter last night for an online test.
> 
> “Jackson, I keep telling you, we used up all the milk because of the milk drinking contest you had with Bambam and Yugyeom the other day.” Mark chimes in, ruffling Jinyoung’s already disheveled hair before handing him a cup of coffee (Mark was heaven sent, seriously).
> 
> “Aish, then why didn’t you stop us? You know I can’t eat my cereals without milk! “ Jackson whines back (And in all actuality, Mark didn’t know that but he just goes along and pretends he does) , flopping back down on his seat after closing the refrigerator door none too gently (Jinyoung glares at him for that, his fridge deserved dignity and respect).
> 
> Mark just shakes his head before throwing a pair of granola bars at Jackson’s head, he catches the first one but because his eyes were slightly bad—astigmatism--, he completely missed the second one and it hits him square in the forehead.
> 
> Jackson just whines even more, about how he was so unappreciated in this household, and Jinyoung almost just wants to kick him to the curb already—but he still didn’t have enough coffee in his system to execute this thought properly. Mark, like the god sent that he is, gives him his second cup of coffee before going back to soothing Jackson.
> 
> As he watches the two’s antics, he tries to work out in his brain what it was that he had needed to process, but lacked the necessary amount of caffeine within his bloodstream, earlier--when Jackson was whining about a different matter entirely.
> 
> Mark continues to obligingly fuss over Jackson, and then he kisses the spot on Jackson’s forehead where the granola bar had met its target.
> 
> And Jinyoung promptly snorts coffee up his nose.
> 
> “EWWWWW.” Jackson squeals, trying to scuttle away from the coffee mess that Jinyoung had made of himself.
> 
> As soon as Jinyoung gets his bearing together, he yells out what made him snort burning hot coffee up his nostrils in the first place; “YAH! I bought two gallons of milk just four days ago! What do you mean there’s no more milk?!”
> 
> Jinyoung’s unable to function properly in the mornings without drinking at least two whole cups of coffee.

 

But he couldn’t really begrudge his friend for eating all of his grocery and drinking all of his beer (maybe for the beer, gods he hoped he wasn’t sharing them with Mark)--

 

> Jackson has in fact shared a beer with Mark. But strangely enough, Mark was a quiet drunk, not all that different from what he was like normally. Jackson was sorely disappointed because he was expecting to see a crazy, hyperactive Mark.
> 
> He later tells Mark that he’s no fun when drunk. Mark agrees, and the couple times that Jackson drinks beer afterwards, Mark only drinks one, enough to get a buzz but not enough to get drunk.
> 
> He doesn’t tell Jackson that the reason he was so quiet was because he was staring intently at Jackson the whole time, thinking about Jackson, Jackson,Jackson. He had to try his best to keep his mouth shut, he didn’t think he could take it if he lost Jackson because of a drunken impulse to wrap him up and keep him locked up in his bedroom till the end of time.

 

\--because in just a couple of weeks, Mark was looking much better.

 

His skin has regained some color, a pale pink instead of the old unhealthy palor, his eyes brighter and his laughs and smiles more frequent. Admittedly, there are still times when he would lock himself in the room--mostly at night--after Jackson has left because Jinyoung put his feet down against slumber parties (and Jackson doesn’t put up much of a fight, oddly enough).

Jinyoung sometimes try to hear what Mark is saying or doing behind the closed door, it always sounds like he’s talking to someone but Jinyoung knows that Mark shouldn’t really have anyone else to call outside of their group of friends and his parents. And no one in the group has claimed to be his frequent call buddy.

He tells Jaebum as much. He tells him that maybe Mark was just talking to himself. But they’re both a little unsure (of which theory they wanted to believe).


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark is happy. And Jackson might be too.

Mark is happy. Happier than he can ever remember being. Some nights, he’d stay awake because his jaw is stinging from all the exercise it was getting nowadays.

But once Jackson and everyone else who became his friends left, at the end of the night, he was still alone. Alone in the dark room. Alone with his own thoughts.

They fly to Suzy, but now, a couple months after meeting his new friends, Mark sees it as more of a routine than of something that he feels he intensely needed to do. To think about Suzy. To remember her. To honor her death.

He calls the stranger’s number. He’s memorized the order of the digits, the feel of the pads beneath his finger tips and the intervals at which the phone would rhythmically ring.

A beep. Then he says;

I want to thank you.

I didn’t know if you were listening at all, before. But just knowing that someone might be listening—was willing to listen, helped me a lot. I’ve been trying to work out my problems and I apologize if I distressed you at times. And it must be getting irritating, getting voice messages from a stranger constantly but I feel that I owe it to you—you who listened and stuck around during my hardships—to at least also include you in my journey to becoming better. So I’ll still continue to leave voice messages, but this time, I’ll be talking about fun things—happy things.

And if you ever need someone to just listen to your thoughts, problems or worries. My voicemail box is always open.

He ends the message. Then goes to sleep. Not a tear in sight.

…

As Jackson lies on his bed, with Mark’s latest voice message replaying once again; his mind is occupied by multiple things.

He feels happy. He’s happy that Mark is happy. That he is finally getting better.

But, now, it sort of feels like he’s betraying Mark. That’s he’s lying to his friend (?). The longer their friendship ran, the longer they spent time together having fun, the more Jackson felt guilty. It seemed like there was never an appropriate time to let Mark know that the stranger listening to his messages was him.

He didn’t want to lose him. He didn’t want to lose his connection with Mark; both in real life and through the voice messages.

And most importantly, Jackson thinks, as he looks up at his boring beige ceiling once again, when the hell was he going to paint his damn room? (Jackson has always been good at avoiding things he didn’t know how to handle)

…

_I never take them._

_The medicine, I mean._

_They always make me feel like I'm floating. And I feel fine while I’m on them but...once it wears off, it’s like I feel even heavier. Having known what it was like to float, to not feel so... So broken. It just hurts more later on._

_There was a rustling noise on the other end, and for a second, Jackson thinks Mark might cry again. But he doesn’t._

_Drugs aren't forever. Haha._

 

_But yeah. I know Jr. worries. He always has JB buy more medicine every time I'm almost out. I'm pretty sure JB already knows I don't drink them. He always comments on how fruity the bathroom smells whenever I've just flushed them down the toilet._

_And that's another thing. Who ever thought that making anti-depressants tropical fruit flavored was a good idea has clearly been consuming too much of their own product._

_If you sprayed Fabreeze on your tongue, it has the same taste. Noxious._

_But yeah. Ugh, that wasn't a happy thing, was it?_

_Umm._

_Jacks got me candy today?_

 

There was a slight pause. And Jackson couldn’t stop the smile curling up his lips.

 

_I know it doesn't seem all that big but I can just be happy with the small things, right?_

_Besides, you didn't see how proud he was--he smiled so much that I thought his face would break--when he found out that one of the candies he brought for me was my favorite kind._

_It was funny though, because as soon as he found out, he would keep stealing them from me! Who does that? Bastard. Haha._

 

_But yeah... That'll be it for tonight. Good night, stranger. Hope you have sweet dreams._

Jackson was so screwed. It was like the first time Mark started leaving voice messages but this time, Jackson knew who he was, and the guilt was more overwhelming. Because now, the guy was happy.

Jackson decides to finally take action. Enough is enough.

 

 

 

 

He’s going to finally paint his stupid beige walls. (Did Jackson ever tell you that he’s really good at avoidance?)

He sends a mass text to his friends—careful not to include Mark’s number, he’d just tell him in person when he came over tomorrow to pick him up—telling them to come over tomorrow to help paint, bribing them with promises of pizza and cola. He just hopes Bambam wears one of his favorite shirts tomorrow, he’s been more of a cheeky bastard lately and needs to be knocked down a peg, and a little paint on his favorite clothes should do just the job.

…

Jackson buys a ton of red paint. Different shades and textures and names. All of them, not right. Not the right kind of red he wanted, not quite the right shade, never near the perfect sheen and the names don’t flow as easily from his mouth (as Mark’s name does).

He tells Mark as much.

Mark only chuckles at his dissatisfied expression. Jackson pouts and crosses his arms, right in the middle of the busy aisle of the paint section in the home supplies store. Mark hooks his arm around Jackson’s shoulder and turns the other’s head towards him. He leans in close, eye to eye with Jackson (it sort of hurts Jackson’s pride to know that Mark has to bend over just a bit, to meet eye to eye with him) before whispering, as if he was about to inform Jackson the secret to life, that they could always just mix and match the red paints, until they find just the right one.

As Jackson stares at Mark’s red hair, red lips and flushed red cheeks; he doesn’t think it will be possible to paint his room the kind of red he’d be satisfied with. But he doesn’t tell Mark, he just nods along excitedly and walks out the store with tons of red paint; different shades and textures and names—none of them right. But at least Mark said he’d help him find the right one.

…

Bambam, Yugyeom and Youngjae were lounging about in Jackson’s living room. Really, they were supposed to finish up two more walls and the ceiling.

Instead, there they sat, drinking cola and eating the pizza already. Bambam reasons that if Jackson hyung didn't want them to eat yet, the he would have hid the pizza better, right? He asks this as he gets down from the chair he had grabbed as a boost to reach the top of the kitchen cabinet. (Bambam tells them that he’s not getting petty revenge, just because he got this pinkish-red splatter over his new HBA tank. Not at all. Bambam just really liked pizza. And hated his Jackson hyung at the moment.)

"Are you sure about this? Jackson hyung might get really mad..." Youngaje weakly protests, even as he nibbles on the edge of a particularly cheesy slice of pizza.

 

Bambam shoots him a pointed look, looking at the pizza then back at Youngjae again. Youngjae blushes and chuckles a bit in response but otherwise continues to eat his pizza.

 

"It's alright, hyung! Besides, Mark hyung and Jackson hyung are probably too busy painting his room that they won't notice until it’s too late." Yugyeom reassures, smiling happily as he munches on his little slice of heaven.

 

"You mean, they'd be too busy sucking face to even acknowledge that we exist." Bambam sasses, loving to tease the "will they, won't they" couple.

 

The three has always just assumed that the two were a couple. And has secretly prided themselves, mostly Bambam, in witnessing and somewhat fostering--Bambam vehemently claims-- the happy relationship the two had. They were there, the very first time the two met. (“met” being a term they would use loosely-- Mark was bleeding on and beating at Jackson the first time they met. It wasn't really the most romantic of first meetings. )

 

"I'm a bit curious as to why they haven't told us about them though. Are they afraid of what our reactions are going to be like?" Yugyeom asks, sipping his cola leisurely.

 

"What's there to be afraid about? It's not like they've been very subtle this whole time." Bambam replies resting his arms comfortably against the back of the sofa.

 

"I don't think Jaebum hyung knows..." Youngaje hesitantly adds, looking towards the closed door of Jackson's room. Youngjae doubts how well the older boy was going to react, really.

 

"Really? That's weird because I'm pretty sure Jinyoung hyung knows (because he lives in the same house, after all-- wouldn't the sex get too loud for him?) and he tells Jaebum hyung everything." Bambam says thoughtfully, looking up at the beige ceiling.

Aish, no wonder Jackson hyung had wanted to paint his apartment. The beige color was so boring.

“Pretty sure who tells Jaebum hyung everything?” Jaebum asks, just as he and Jinyoung enter Jackson’s apartment. Bambam frowns because of being caught while talking shit (he prides himself in being sneaky). Youngjae frowns and does a doubletake because--did they forget to lock the door? And Yugyeom smiles because the pair came in with ice cream.

“Oh we were just talking about—“ Yugyeom starts.

“Yah! You’re late and—is that ice cream?” Jackson interrupts as he and Mark gets out of his newly painted room. Their faces and all other exposed skin smeared with red.

Jackson runs to hug Jaebum, to slyly steal away the ice cream, but Jaebum would have none of it; “Nuh-uh. I know what your plan is, devious little bastard. I just bought this shirt. Go wash up first, then we’ll have ice cream.”

“I’m not little! And Mark and I are going to the bath house down the street, I’m not dealing with red stains in my shower. Plus it’s faster since we can just quickly wash up together.” Jackson says, as he pulls Mark along to the door.

“Bye, save me the peach flavored one, Jinyoung!” Mark hastily adds, as he’s dragged away outside.

Bambam lets out a snort. Yugyeom and him exchange exaggerated dubious glances. And Youngjae is sweating bullets—why were they being so obvious, did they want Jaebum hyung to find out and get angry?

“Ah, I guess we can wait for them to come back before eating the ice cream.”

“Aish, hyuuung. We should eat it nooow. We all know those two won’t be back till later, they’ll probably be too busy sucking face!”

A strange silence descends on the room.

Youngjae bursts out trying to save the situation but his bumbling, rambling efforts were swiftly cut off.

“What?” Jaebum asks, his eyebrows raised.

 

…

At the end of the day, walking back to his apartment from a satisfying bath, Jackson is so very happy and satisfied. His room was painted red, a red close enough but not exactly perfect (But Jackson’s long since learned to avoid expecting perfection, and settles himself down to enjoy what he could have in life).

Bambam wore his new expensive HBA tank, and got carnation red all over its black leathery expanse—see if the cheeky bastard will run his tongue any time soon to Jackson.

Oh, and Mark kissed him.

…

They were carefully examining the new different shades of red they’ve come up with. Well, Mark was. Jackson got a little preoccupied with something else.

He’d been staring at Mark intensely for the past half hour. In his defense, he had a valid reason this time (not that he tries to watch Mark as much as he can when he can get away with it. No, that’s called being a stalker).

There was red paint on the tip of his nose. And Jackson, whose restraint has always been severely lacking (he was working on it), inches forward and kisses Mark’s nose.

He pulls away and the paint was still there. So he leans in again. And again. And again, until Mark’s stopped paying attention to anything but the feel of Jackson’s soft, chapped lips against the tip of his nose. He makes a small exhale noise. It sounded content, even to his own ears.

Jackson stops. He’s always been the affectionate type, but he doesn’t think he can play this one off. So he stops, and then just resigns himself to watch Mark’s reaction.

Mark turns to Jackson’s still form and reaches out with a finger. It touches Jackson’s lip and comes away red. He laughs a little (he does that a lot. When Jackson’s around. ) at Jackson’s wide eyed wonder, as he bops his finger against his nose and leaves a matching red mark (Mark MarkMarkmarkmark, Jackson’s mind goes).

And they sat there. Surrounded by reds of many different kinds, the only people in the world, for all they knew.

Then, they laugh. They laugh long and hard and it knocks them off their feet and it was like the roof top again. Except this time, Mark had socks on and Jackson was in love.

Then, Mark rolls over to Jackson’s side, still over come with violent laughter, and presses his lips against Jackson. The laughter is bubbly against his lips, the soft pair of lips trembling from happiness and there were no words needed.

Then they get up, and go right back into painting once again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaebum punches like he means it...which he does. But at least Mark gets one fun-filled week out of it.

He gets greeted with a punch in the face. 

 

He falls to the ground and it takes him a couple of moments to fully comprehend what had just happened.

 

Did Jaebum just punch him? What the fuck?

 

"What the fuck, Jaebum?"  Jackson bites out as he tries to get up while massaging his bruised jaw.

 

“No, you don't get to say that because, Jackson, what the fuck?!" Jaebum screams, his face red, as he holds up Jackson's phone. It was replaying one of Mark’s earliest voice messages. When his voice was like sandpaper and his heart was bleeding a liter a minute. It was painful to hear now. Now when Mark had gone so far from that—when he was so happy now. 

  
But Jackson couldn’t bear to erase any of the voice messages—all of them, even the unpleasant ones were little pieces of Mark that he hoarded to himself, hiding them away like little guilty, secret gem stones. And now, they’ve found his stash and they’re looking at him like a cop looks at a thief they've caught red handed.

 

Jackson deflates a little. He already knew where this was going.

  
It didn't mean that he had to give in easy though.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the fact that you are fucking with Mark. Mark, the guy who almost killed himself because he felt responsible for his ex-girlfriend's death. The guy who trusted you and befriended you inspite of his fear of getting close to people. That's what the fuck I am talking about, Jackson!" Jaebum, bites out, his voice almost cracking at fuck.

For a long stretch of time the only sounds that could be heard in the room is Jaebum's labored breathing and Jinyoung leaving and entering the room again, bringing an ice bag for Jackson's face.  
“For what it’s worth, I’m not fucking with him. I like him, Jaebum. And I think—I think he likes me too.” Jackson whispers, almost inaudibly.

  
“Jackson, you’re not stupid. You’ve never been. So you should know, that whatever is happening with Mark right now, he—he’s not been in the right state of mind. Jackson, you’re—you’re taking advantage of him.” Jaebum struggles to say, trying to suppress the boiling rage that seems to spill over, with every word he says to Jackson. 

Jackson is momentarily stunned. He’s never—it—he would never try to take advantage of Mark! But, but what if he was? 

 

Jinyoung sits Jackson down on the sofa, as Jaebum turns away from Jackson to look at anywhere but him, before none too gently pressing the ice bag on his face.

 Jackson winces. Jinyoung smiles, but its closer to a grimace, and asks him if it hurts.

Jackson nods hesitantly.

And Jinyoung says "Good."

He stops talking, but he looks like he wants to say more. Jinyoung never ran out of things to say, which just makes the situation all the more real to Jackson. But he doesn't comment.

Jackson just lets the silence wash over him as he tries to figure out how one of the best days he's ever had might as well have turned out to be the worst.

"Does he know?" Jaebum asks, finally turning to face Jackson once again. His eyes were wet. And wow, this was a whole new level of low even for Jackson. He hasn't seen Jaebum so upset, that he'd shed tears, since Granpa Im's funeral a thousand summers ago.

"What do you think?" Jackson says shortly, a bitter self loathing twang evident in his thick voice, but the bite out of his words was derailed by his sagging shoulders and down turned eyes. 

"Then you have to tell him. Soon. Now, even." Jaebum says, refusing to look at Jackson once again. This time, because Jackson is his friend as well, he didn’t like to see him like that.

"What? I can't!" Jackson bursts out, his pleading eyes turned to the pair standing over him. 

"You can't or you won't?"

The words are short and bordering on cliché but Jaebum's words strike him.

Was he being selfish again? Was he risking Mark again by lying to him? Gods, he didn't want to. But he didn't want to lose Mark either.

"Jacks, you can't keep doing this-- I can't let you keep doing whatever it is that you've been doing so far. You're my friend but Mark is my friend too. I won't let you hurt him anymore than he's been hurt already." Jaebum says, looking straight into Jackson's eyes, his eyes soft but his back ramrod straight. 

Jinyoung stands by JB's side with his arms crossed firmly; where there is JB, there is Jinyoung. And at that moment, he envies them. Envies their codependency. Envies their closeness and absolute confidence in each other. (Enviesenviesenvies. Jackson has never looked good in green.)

Jackson, drops his head into his hands, the ice bag falling to the floor, forgotten.

"I--give me a week.” Jackson tells them, pleads really, his voice cracking and his form crumpled in on himself.

 

...

They were in Mark’s room. Lazing around on his bed. It was Saturday.

Jackson didn't go to class the whole week.

(Monday; they went hiking and Jackson, who suggested it in the first place, whined the whole way to the top. But the view on top—the stars laid out, bright and shining against the dark expanse of the night sky with the busy lighted city in contrast against it—was well worth the blisters and bruises.

Tuesday; Jackson just said that he feels like going to Jeju island, as if it was something usual and mundane like ordering a pizza, and so they went. The fine sand of the beach felt nice beneath his feet and the sun kept him warm as he basked in it. The air was filled with laughter and the smell of octopus being grilled. Weirdly enough, he found out Jackson wore make up, when he jumped to the ocean and the cosmetics watered down like an oil spill—to which he vehemently said it was only to cover up his black eye. Mark just raises an eye brow at him—since when was Jackson the type to get into fights? But Mark doesn’t say anything because, well, he hasn’t known Jackson long enough to know these kinds of things about him, right?

Wednesday; Mark taught Jackson and the younger ones how to skateboard—Jinyoung and Jaebum said that they had something to do—and it was a disaster. Most of them kept falling, which was normal, but they weren’t catching themselves properly. Mark worries about how tightly they secured their protective gear the whole time. Jackson pouts the whole time, because skate boarding doesn’t come as easily to him as other things do. Bambam teases him gleefully by performing a basic turn, which Jackson failed to learn how to do. The only saving grace was that they went for barbeque and ice cream afterwards.

Thursday; Mark didn’t think he was going anywhere that day. Suzy’s mother had called to ask how he’s been doing. Was he supposed to have said that he’s happy now? Or that he was still dying inside? He didn’t know, and he told her as much. It took a toll on him.  He couldn’t even get out of bed. His body felt like lead and his lungs refused to expand more than an inch—as if to give him enough oxygen to live but not enough to be able to do anything else. And Jackson,who arrived a little after noon with whatever crazy plan he had for that day, took one look at his laid out form and dropped everything else. Instead, he takes off his coat, his beanie, the ski mask he wore and his socks. Then, he climbs into bed with Mark. The bed was small and it was a tight fit but with Jackson in his bed with him, Mark felt less constricted. Jackson hugs his waist and tangles their feet together. The first sound Mark is able to make, once his lungs seemed to work again, is a whine--grumbling about how cold Jackson’s feet were, and  _Jeez, what were you doing before coming here, skiing on the snow?_ Jackson just tells him to shut up because  _pillows aren’t supposed to talk,_ before burying his head further into the hollow of Mark’s neck.

Friday; they played video games for most of the day, surrounded by bags of chips, boxes of pizza, packets of candies and bottles of soda—it was like high school all over again. Mark felt so light and happy and just content in the moment. Him and Jackson, shoulder to shoulder and trash talking fourteen year olds—it was a moment that he never wanted to leave.)

 

Mark thinks it's odd but waves it off. Jackson’s always done as he liked, it wasn't any different now.

But...

Mark bites his lip. He stares at Jackson, as the man-child lies on top of his mauve sheets—looking completely at ease.

  
Jackson's in school on a fencing scholarship. And he hasn't been to fencing practice since last week. 

  
"You know, if you keep looking at me like that, I may get the wrong idea and kiss you." Jackson prods at Mark, waggling his eyebrows up and down, making kissy face at the red head. (And Mark wants him to. But Jackson has been oddly evasive the whole week—they never talked about what they are. All Mark knows is that he likes the feel of Jackson’s lips on his and the warmth that lights up within him whenever Jackson was around.)

  
Mark punches him on the shoulder. And Jackson goes down Mark's bed, laughing. He nestles his face in the sheets and sighs in content after his laughter's subsided. 

  
Mark bites his lip again, as he reaches out to put Jackson's head on his lap and run his fingers through Jackson's hair.

  
_Should he ask?_

  
Mark looks down to Jackson's relaxed face, his eyes closed. His long lashes fanned out on his cheeks. He looked angelic like that. And Mark wants.

But he hesitates for a bit, before deciding that he didn’t need a label to know that he likes kissing Jackson. And Mark’s been spoiled lately--he was learning to take a hold of what makes him happy and Jackson was it. So he’s going to kiss him and everything’s going to be fine.

He pecks Jackon’s lips softly.

Once.

Twice.

Once again.

Jackson sighs contentedly in response. (Jackson savors. But he doesn’t initiate because damn it,  _he wasn’t taking advantage of Mark_.)

Mark lifts his head back up and he traces Jackson’s dark--almost bruised looking-- heavy under eye-lids that kept getting darker as the days went by.

  
_Yeah. He should ask._

  
"Jackson.”

“hmm?”

“If there’s something wrong going on, you would tell me, right?” Mark asks, as he continues to leisurely sweep back Jackson’s thick hair, the stubborn mop falling back on top of the other boy’s forehead as soon as he lets go.

Jackson stiffens briefly, before relaxing once again. He opens one eye and stares straight into Mark’s own and tells him,  _of course he would_ (But he’s not sure Mark would still want to listen, after… after.).

“Then, what’s wrong? I know you like spending time with me, but the past few days, you’ve been like gum that’s stuck under the sole of my shoe. Jinyoung even let you sleep over the other night. He never lets you do that.” Mark says, trying to tease Jackson a bit, ease the younger boy’s tense frame.

“What do you mean what’s wrong? I think what’s wrong here is that, you, my Markie-poo, don’t want me around anymore. I am hurt. Hurt!” Jackson exclaims, leaning his head back on Mark’s lap, Mark’s knee digging almost painfully into the back of his neck, while putting his hand on his chest, his face scrunching up in faked agony. Mark huffs and shakes his head.

But he doesn’t give up either.

“Jackson. Jackson, look at me.”

“Waeee?” Jackson whines as he turn his head up to look up at Mark.

Mark puts both of his hands on either side of Jackson’s face in response, keeping the squirming boy’s face in place and leaning in close; eye to eye, eyelash to eyelash, Mark to Jackson.

“I know that you’re in Uni on a fencing scholarship. You haven’t been to fencing practice since last week. Want to tell me why?” Mark asks, his voice barely above a whisper, his fluttering lashes brushing against Jacksons.

It’s quiet for a bit. Almost peaceful.

The question hangs (like a dead man) in the air though.

And for a moment, it looks like Jackson was going to answer truthfully but then he giggles. It starts as a huff, then a sharp intake of air and then he was full blown giggling.

Mark backs away, drops Jackson’s head from his lap, and backs away into a corner end of his bed, hugging a stuffed brown bear head (he doesn’t remember its name. Only that it was another one of the trinkets Jackson’s brought into his  ~~life~~ room).

Jackson quickly tries to get over his fit, trying to placate the pouting red head while still hacking up a lung.

After a couple more minutes of Jackson still sounding like a cat trying to cough up a particularly stubborn hair ball; Mark throws the bear head pillow at him and yells “YAH! How long do you plan on giggling for? Is my concern that funny to you?”

His voice is irritated and put off but there was a small amount of hurt in there. And, Jackson, who’s heard the hurt, the angry, the begging and every other variation of Mark’s tones through a cell phone’s receiver, immediately, picks up on the hurt. So he dutifully holds his breath for thirty seconds straight before lunging towards the redhead.

He nuzzles Mark’s neck and peppers whatever skin he can get his lips on, with small, apologetic kisses. (This is skinship. This doesn’t count, Jackson reasons with his conscience.)

“I’m sorry. Your concern isn’t funny at all, although your reaction kind of was. But! I wasn’t laughing at you! I was just surprised that you knew I fenced.”

If anything, this makes Mark even more put off, but the hurt is definitely gone.

“Of course I’d know. Do you think I wouldn’t know things about my bo-best friend?!” Mark asks indignant, his voice hitting a hesitant stutter when he said  _best friend._ Was that what they still were? Mark didn’t think so. But Jackson hasn’t really said anything.

“N-no, I mean, I don’t know. I mean I’ve never really mentioned it to you?” Jackson says, struggling to express himself, for once.

“Ahh, I—well Bambam mentioned it and then I told him I hadn’t known and then him and the others started showing me pictures of you and your medals and…“ Mark starts off rambling, and then quietly trails off. He looks down at his lap and picks at the bunny head pillow that now rested there. Jackson was about to say something when he is stopped by the look on Mark’s face as he slowly lifts his head to look at Jackson through his lashes.

“…Why didn’t you ever tell me that you fenced?” Mark’s voice was small. Almost sounding afraid of the answer to his question.

Jackson doesn’t know what to do with that. He makes many halted motions to reply, his face changing expressions with every failed attempt.

“I—it never really got brought up? I don’t know, Mark.” Jackson replies, suddenly sounding frustrated and a bit irritable. He doesn’t look Mark in the eye. He picks up his abandoned snapback at the foot of the bed, roughly pushing back his hair (looking sideways at the wall clock at the far right, mocking him with its  _tick tock tick tockticktocktick._ ) before placing it on his head and looking back up at Mark.

Mark, seeing Jackson’s sudden irritation grows tense and irate himself. He grows irrationally angry, like the time when he had tried to scratch out his wrists during a bright sunny day outside of Jinyoung’s apartment, with strong arms wrapped around him. (Jackson has always been the mood setter. Jackson’s happy? Mark’s happy. Jackson’s mad? Mark’s mad. It’s a double edged sword, really, this—whatever the hell this is between them.)

“Okay, fine. Avoid that question. How about you tell me why the hell you’ve never bothered to give me your cell phone number? Why you’d never asked for mine either?” Mark asks, his voice rising, his arms curling around himself, as if he was protecting himself from invisible blows. (Jackson’s words always had that effect.)

“W-we’re always together anyway, I didn’t think we’d needed to!”Jackson scrambles to explain, but even to him the excuse fell short. So he continues with; “Mark, why are you asking all of these questions? I’m not your girlfriend, you know?” His voice sounding deep, taunting, before letting out a small self deprecating chuckle while shaking his head left to right.

Ahh, Mark thinks,  _there_. He feels the blows. They feel more real, more painful than the first time he cut himself.

Mark just completely shuts down. His eyes dim. His lips get pulled into a taut, straight line. His arms, tighten, almost painfully, around himself. Suddenly, Mark was back to that day again. Back to the day, where they call him to tell him to head to Namsan bridge. It was urgent. It was Suzy.

He was in a tank top, pajama pants with bare feet then too. The asphalt cut into his feet as he ran but all he could think was the look on Suzy’s face, the last time he saw her.

How empty she looked. How lost, how utterly defeated.

He thinks he understands now. Suzy,  _mianhe_.

“Yeah, you’re right. Haha. Because she’s dead, right?”

Jackson’s irritated demeanor falls in a flash, as if a rug--a façade—that had just been pulled from underneath Mark’s feet. Concern fills his eyes and conflict flickers there, his fingers twitch towards Mark and he’s opening his mouth—but the clock interrupts them ( _Tick tock_ ,  ~~it’s Sunday~~ ).

The clock makes bell noises, Mark thinks it sounds like the Big Ben bell, Jackson thinks it sounds like the ceremonial funeral rite bells that he’s only heard twice in his life ( sweet, old nainai Wang  with the crinkly smile and small, sickly biaomei Mei who had barely been able to walk) but either way, the clock announces that it was twelve o’clock ( _tick tock_ , time’s up).

Jackson’s face scrunches up and this time it shows heart wrenching  ** _agony._** Mark’s still cold from rejection but he sees Jackson’s face as he falls to his knees at the foot of Mark’s bed.

He looks like he’s praying, but Mark’s never seen Jackson in church (Mark hasn’t been to church since—“Till death do us part.”) so he wouldn’t know. Like how he wouldn’t have known about Jackson fencing for the Olympics. Like how he wouldn’t know about Jackson’s phone number. Like how he wouldn’t know almost anything about the person he  ~~loves~~.

“Mark, whatever happens. Whatever screwed up things I do or have done. I want you to know that I lo-- that you’re my best friend, you’re my---my Mark. Nothing will ever change this. Not even if you’re so angry that you can’t stand to see me, not even if we never saw each other again. You understand me?” Jackson says, pausing to regain his bearing before continuing, in a voice that begged like it was groveling for salvation; “So please, please never make that face again. I’ll wait--I’ll be here for you and that will never change. So, please.”

He looks like he wanted to reach out and touch Mark’s face but he lets his arms fall limp at his side.

Mark’s still cold.

Then, Jackson pulls out his phone. He dials a number and Mark’s phone is ringing.

Mark slowly looks off to the side, picking up his phone from its place on top of his bedside table. The screen flashes a familiar number--painfully familiar number--but Mark doesn’t really register this much.

He answers; “Hello?”

And Jackson, with the phone pressed against his ear, kisses Mark (for the last time), his lips the only part of him touching Mark.

“I’m not your girlfriend. I’m not even a girl. I’m sorry and goodbye, Mark.” He whispers against Mark’s lips and Jackson’s voice, the very first time he hears it through a phone receiver and it is breathy and heartbroken, it echoes through and is relayed with a half second delay by his own phone.

Then, Jackson leaves.

And Mark is left alone.

And the ending beep absolutely  _rings._

 

…

 

Jackson takes his time, looking around at the place that has been his second home for months now (moreso than before at least, he’d been here a lot before, but Mark’s arrival made it almost impossible to leave), before walking out the door of Jinyoung’s apartment.

(Jackson didn’t feel hurt, that for all the time he gave him, Mark did not bother to chase after Jackson. He felt like he  _died_. )

Jackson walks and walks and walks. Then he stops. He finds himself in front of a bridge. The murky waters, underneath it, were waving to and fro. Jackson looks at it and tilts his head. His left hand grips his cell phone tightly.

Then it fly, fly, flies over the bridge. It hits the water and interrupts the peaceful rush of water for all of a second. But otherwise, the rushing water stays the same--ever moving. (Just like how life will be, if Jackson were to decide to jump down from the bridge. So he doesn’t. He’s already done this song and dance before. He hopes there won’t be an encore.)

He stares at the rushing water bellow the bridge some more before he turns around and walks away. He needed to get home and call his mother on his home phone.

 

…

 

Mark just sat there--back resting against the wall, toes curled in on his feet, arms wrapped tightly around himself, empty eyes staring blankly ahead—for what seemed like forever, after Jackson had left.

Mark wasn’t an idiot. He had suspected—hoped, really—that it was Jackson who was listening to his messages at the other end of the line. It made sense. Jackson finding him on the rooftop so quickly. Jackson always showing up when he’s had a long cry over the phone. Jackson knowing just what to say when he has his panic attacks. Jackson, Jackson, Jackson.

In fact, Mark  _wished_ for the stranger to be Jackson. But, at the same time, not. ( ~~Because wouldn’t that mean that Jackson knew this whole time? Wouldn’t that mean that everything Jackson has done up till now was out of pity? Out of some sick sense of responsibility?~~ Mark didn’t like being pitied.)

And now, knowing that the stranger who patiently listened to his broken moments was Jackson, Mark did not know how to react.

Was he supposed to be happy? Maybe. Was he happy? No.

Mark felt as if heavy bile was trying to burn its way up his throat. He thinks it tastes a bit like hurt. And betrayal.

But all of these feelings that were burning up inside of Mark were so very irrational, he tells himself. Because a small bitter voice inside Mark’s head keeps saying  _what is there to be betrayed about? You’ve always known that Jackson only put up with you because he pitied you. But now you can also add guilt to the list of reasons, huh?_

Mark doesn’t know what to do with himself. Whenever he feels like this, like a cup overflowing with water with no relief in sight, he had always called the stranger. But he can’t do that now, can he?

Mark can’t remember much of what Jackson had said—he was too cold, mind closed off, shut down by the rejection he felt—but he vaguely recalls Jackson talking about always being there for him?

The words seem nice. But nice words have never been reliable, Mark knows this from experience.

But he really can’t help himself. As his hand twitches towards the letter opener (a small pen knife--it was his mom’s graduation gift for him), he instead grabs his phone tightly.

With shaking hands, he calls ( ~~the stranger~~ ) Jackson. He had memorized the order of the digits, the feel of the pads beneath his finger tips and the intervals at which the phone would rhythmically ring but this time there was no ringing.

There was only a neutral, smooth sounding voice, telling him that  _the number you are currently dialing has been disconnected. Good bye._

Nice words have never been reliable, Mark learns again.

His blood is bright red, Mark re-learns as well.

 

…

 

Jackson does call his mother that night (after telling the company to disconnect his mobile phone.  ~~If he couldn’t hear Mark’s voice, then some random stranger who may pick up his phone certainly couldn’t either.~~ )  And he does what he hates doing the most to his mother. ( ~~Asking to move to Korea. Asking to kill me. Asking her to strap me down on the bed at night, when I feel like I’m about to lose my mind from the urge to bleed. Asking her to love a broken son. Asking her to fix him again.~~ ) Asking for money from her.

But he needed it, for a new phone and maybe a plane ticket. He thinks he needs the plane ticket because suddenly he was so very tempted to break the glass front of the framed butterfly knife on his wall. The bright red card and ribbon displayed on its glass surface, proudly stating two years ( ~~stable~~ ) of celebrating life, that’s always given him strength, now somehow felt like a taunt. A spit to the face.

  
The days pass and Jackson sleeps through them. Partly because he was tired, partly because of the sleeping pills that he hasn't touched since over two years ago and wholly because he couldn't stop thinking of red. The red of his blood, the red of his room's walls, the red of Mark’s lips, the red of Mark's hair, the red of Mark's wrists--redredred. **(MarkMarkMark)**

  
Then Jackson wakes up and remembers.  _Mark._

  
He runs and runs to the bridge, barely remembering to put on his shoes. How much of an idiot could Jackson  _be?! Why_ would he throw away all the precious voice mails that he’s always hoarded? Why, especially now when it was most likely going to be the closest thing to hearing Mark’s voice that he was going to get?

He’s nearing the bridge, when he sees a figure looking over the same murky waters he had been staring at a few days ago. He ignores the other (it was five in the fucking morning, he didn’t think people who came to stare down Namsan River that early, really wanted to be bothered) and goes straight to looking over the edge. And of- _fucking_ -course, the phone was already nowhere to be seen.

He slumps over the railing in defeat. But his self loathing is interrupted by the vibrations he felt on the railing. What the fuck was the guy on the other side of the bridge doing?

Jackson looks up and almost loses his grip on the railing then and there.

The other, who has red hair and red splotched cheeks was shaking against the railing violently, tears staining the already rusty metal. Half his body was over the railing, bent over it. And Jackson just suddenly becomes violently, irrationally angry. All he sees is red (again).

“Mark, what the  _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?” Jackson almost screams, holding the other boy’s arm and pulling him away from the railing.

The redhead’s in a daze. Was Jackson really here? Or was Mark’s medication making him hallucinate again? (Last night, he heard rocks hitting his window pane but there was no smell of dukkbokki.)

Jackson looks at Mark, at his dilated pupils and his too thin frame and at his freshly bandaged wrists. And Jackson knows. Knows that this is what he looked like, two years ago.

So he softens his grip, but makes sure to keep it firm, and slides it down to Mark’s unbandaged wrist (and it’s too thin, Jackson’s hand easily fitting around it, with room to spare).

They both stay silent-- Mark because he was still in a daze (Mark’s always hated his medication.), And Jackson because he couldn’t even look at Mark, let alone speak to him.

Jackson, gets to Jinyoung and Mark's apartment, and for a moment he shifts in place, not knowing what to do. They stand there in the middle of the hallway in front of Jinyoung’s door, Jackson holding Mark’s wrist, Mark listing unstably from side to side, before Jackson hesitantly asks Mark if he brought his keys with him.

Jackson is anxious to hear the reply. Not because he’s afraid to be locked out of Jinyoung’s apartment but because he’s asked the same question of Mark before. This will confirm his suspicions, of—of what Mark was doing at Namsan bridge.

Mark, still in a daze, slowly pulls out a lanyard around his neck, underneath the thin shirt he had on. At the end of it was the shiny bronze spare key.

Thank god.

Jackson could have kissed Mark right then and there. But his control, for once, stopped him. He really didn’t think this was something that would be good for both of them at their current states.

So he helps Mark towards his room. Shedding his shoes, and tucking him into bed. Jackson wraps Mark’s fists with saran wrap for good measure. (It’s almost familiar, the first time he had done this for Mark, was much the same.  ~~Except then, he hadn’t loved him.~~ )

He makes sure to put a glass of water with a straw in it, an aspirin and an empty waste bin beside his bed. Mark’s always been weak when he falls off from the high that his medicine gave.

Then Jackson writes a note and leaves it right beside Mark’s head on his pillow.

 

 

 

_Once you wake up, go to my apartment. We need to talk._

_I’ll wait for you._

_-_ _J_


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How can you love someone you don't truly know? Jackson ponders.

The first thought Mark has, as he wakes up, is;  _I fucking hate Jinyoung for shoving so much of my stupid tropical flavored meds down my throat._

 

His throat is dry as a dessert, and he could barely open his swollen-shut eyes. He spots a glass of water on the side table, reaches for it, then realizes that his hands are saran wrapped into fists. There was a red straw in the glass of water.

 

Mark wants to laugh at the irony of it all. As if the past months hadn’t existed, as if his recovery was merely a dream, as if the soft feeling of Jackson’s lips against his was his delusion—he is now back to where he started.

 

Lying in bed, disoriented, with bandaged wrists, saran wrapped hands and a broken heart.

 

He turns to the side, to bury his face in his pillow, but he hears something crinkle and an odd prickly feeling against his face.

 

He lifts his head and sees a note.

 

It was written in Jackson’s usual hybrid of cursive and print. Its strokes were wide, the width of the pen’s imprint filled with whimsy and the dots were roughly made.

 

But the last sentence was small, almost afraid to take up space on the small, yellow paper—it was clearly written, without any of his usual bravado, and simple. Mark almost wants to thrash around, rip the paper to shreds and—and.

 

It wasn’t  _fair._

 

That a simple line, could make Mark feel the warmth underneath his belly—the familiar warmth of happiness. But Mark knew better than that. He  _should_ know better than that. Better than anyone else.

…

Mark goes to Jackson's.

  
This was only the second time that Mark has been to Jackson's apartment. The last time was when they were painting his walls (and each other's lips) red.

  
He was happy then. Being here now, under these circumstances, made his happy memory seem almost like a delusion. He hated tarnishing his happy memories.

  
The silence between them was palpable, the weight of what was between them seemed to register. It was unbearably heavy.

  
They speak in muted tones. Words exchanged sparingly. Do you want some snacks? No. You finished painting the living room walls? Yes.

  
It was the exact opposite of the usual staccato rhythm of their banter.

 

It was suffocating.

  
And as Mark solemnly looks down at his steaming cup of tea, he wishes that Jackson would just hurry up (and take away the pain or just rip his heart out completely). After another long stretch of silence, Jackson seems to come to the same conclusion because he clears his throat. The sound seems to echo in the silent room.

  
"I--" Jackson struggles to start, then he sighs. His shoulders slump. And he approaches Mark for the first time since he came in the apartment.

  
Jackson crouches down in front of Mark's sitting form, his eyes perfectly aligned with the other's.

  
They say that the eyes were the window to the soul. Jackson's eyes looked murky, almost as if a thin film was warping them from Mark’s view. As if Jackson was shrouded away from him. Always a mystery.

  
Mark breaks eye contact and looks at anywhere but Jackson. He looks down at the well worn--almost too worn down--bed; had Jackson never bothered to fix his bed? (or was he like Mark, who never even left from its embrace?)

  
He looks to the countless gleaming trophies that are proudly presented in a glass cabinet; proof (of Mark's lack of knowledge about the person he  _ ~~loves~~_  calls his best friend) of Jackson's hard work.

  
He looks at a small square glass casing mounted on the wall. The glass was broken and he could see some pieces of red cloth caught at its jagged edges. He hadn't noticed that before.

 

“Mark. Look at me.” Jackson tells him, pulling Mark out of his thoughts, his voice rough and tired. He sounded as if the world was on his shoulders—that he’s so tired, like he doesn’t know for how much longer he can carry it.

 

And that’s when Mark gets irrationally angry. The anger was abrupt, like an unexpected volcanic eruption. Mark swings his head to look at Jackson dead in the eyes.

 

They were close—their breaths intermingling with each other. Jackson smelling like he hasn’t bathed in days and himself spreading the sickening smells of puke and dried sweat, no doubt. They were both messes.

 

And that just makes the anger in Mark’s eyes dim, just a little. But he is still angry.

 

How dare Jackson feel so defeated? Feel so tired and beaten down?

 

Mark wasn’t the one who walked out of that room that night. Mark wasn’t the one who spewed  ~~lies~~ promises he couldn’t keep. It was Jackson.

 

Mark almost lets out a low, self deprecating chuckle—because it’s always been about Jackson to him, wasn’t it?

 

What he lets out instead was a strangled cough. And a brusque; “What?”

 

Jackson’s face only droops more in response, looking more tired and defeated than the past few minutes.

 

“What were you doing at the bridge?” Jackson asks, moving his gaze away from Mark’s face, as if he was afraid of the answer to his question.

 

Mark waits a beat, till the moment Jackson looks back at him, before he lets out a cruel smirk.

 

“I was there to jump. To kill myself. Isn’t that what you expect to hear?” Mark’s voice was harsh, his tone meant to cut into Jackson. Because if Jackson was hurt--if he felt guilt--then doesn’t that mean that he at least cares? (Mark’s never been good at expressing his feelings. He’s never learnt to say no. He’s never learnt how to beg them to stay.)

 

And Jackson doesn’t disappoint, because he flinches, as if Mark’s words were hits. Mark simultaneously feels a small, cruel satisfaction and an overwhelming feeling of emptiness encompass him.

 

“No. I don’t expect anything but the truth.” Jackson says, his words stilted, as if he were walking on eggshells.

 

Mark lets out a loud laugh. The volume of it grates at his throat.

 

“The truth? You? Jackson Wang, the most amazing liar, wants the truth? I knew you were a joker but isn’t this taking it too far?” Mark asks, smiling—it hurts his jaw and the burning pain in his chest and wrists weren’t helping either.

 

“Tell me, was it satisfying? Helping the poor depressed fool— _doing good?_ I DON’T WANT YOUR FUCKING PITY, JACKSON! I was—was doing fine—I was—you don’t…I…” Mark gradually screams out, everything feeling too tight. The walls were too close. His clothes were too constricting. The bandages on his wrist were too tight—he needed to loosen them.

 

“Mark! Stop it! Stop hurting yourself!” Jackson yells, lunging at Mark and holding his arms captive.

 

Mark blinks through his tears. What was Jackson talking about?

 

Then he looks at his pinned arms and realizes that he had been scratching at his bandaged wrist the whole time. The white bandages were now a dark red color. The blood spills onto Jackson’s bed sheets.

 

Suddenly, Mark feels defeated. All his anger rushes out of him in one fell swoop. What takes its place is the same bone weariness he’d seen in Jackson. He was a mess. They both were.

 

“I—I’m sorry, I hadn’t realized…Can you let go of me?” Mark says, his voice barely above a whisper, craking at  _me._

 

Jackson lets go but he keeps close to Mark. He holds Marks hands in his and looks up at the other boy, once again, his eyes imploring.

 

Mark sighs, remembering Jackson’s question.

 

“I was there because—Suzy. That was the bridge—it was, she—“ Mark struggles to say, as if the words were choking its way out of his throat.

 

“…the cops told me that before she jumped, she said she wouldn’t, if they could bring me there. And I was too late. And—and I  _hate_ myself for ever letting that happen—how could I? I would… I-i, I  _killed_ her…” 

 

(Mark was there because, in his drug hazed mind, he thought Jackson would show up at the bridge—to save him. Like he’s always done. Jackson wasn’t like Mark who let  ~~Suzy~~ anyone who counted on him, die. And he did come.

 

He’s not any better than Suzy.

 

God, he’s  _become_ Suzy. Jackson should have just let him jump.)

…

 

Mark breaks down, and he cries and slumps in on himself, just like all the other times that he’s left voice messages in Jackson’s phone.

 

But this time, Jackson was right next to him. Jackson could do what he’s always wanted to do through the phone. To hold him and tell him things will get better. That none of it was his fault. That he didn’t kill anyone. That he was here for him. Will always be here for him.

 

“Y-you liar. You didn’t answer when I c-called and I needed you then, why—“ Mark grouses, Jackson having said his thoughts out loud.

 

“—why are you even comforting me right now? Because you pity me? Because you feel guilty? What is it Jackson? Because you—you’re really breaking my heart.” Mark stutters out through the jerky sobs that escape his lips, his whole body shaking with each hiccup. He tries to get his hands out of Jackson’s hold but finds that he doesn’t even have the energy to lift his arms anymore.

 

His eyes were red but they looked straight into Jackson’s. They were determined, weary, steeled--as if in preparation for rejection--,and one other emotion that Jackson couldn’t quite place. But they were all of Mark. And Jackson as he looks at Mark; he doesn’t see the tear stains and patches of dried sweat  on Mark’s shirt; doesn’t see the heavy bags underneath Mark’s swollen, red eyes; doesn’t see the tangled mess that was Mark’s hair—the only thing he sees is the boy he loves. And he loves him  _so_ much. And it hurts.

 

And Mark, Mark looks at him in much the same way.

 

“J-jackson. I love you. So please, I—I don’t care if it’s only because you pity me—but please. Don’t leave me, stay with me. I can be better—I will be better.” Mark begs, and this is the first time.

 

Because Mark has never been the one to beg, he’s never learned how, because before Jackson, he’s always just let everything important to him slip away without a fight. He’s always made way for other’s happiness, trying not get in other’s ways—but not this time.

 

Mark wants. He wants to keep Jackson by his side.  _Needs_ it.

 

And so Mark learns how to beg, and claw and fight for what he wants.

 

And Jackson, who’s always been the one fighting. Constantly fighting for the right thing, fighting to continue living, fighting against the world when nobody was ever really against him—Jackson concedes. He admits defeat.

 

“Mark, I don’t pity you. And I told you, I’ll always be there when you want me—need me too. I-I care about you, a lot.” Jackson starts off, his voice rough and shaky, as he stares into Mark’s eyes. They were dimming and shutting down from rejection once again.

 

So he squeezes Mark’s hand, then grabs a hold of Mark’s face, leaning their foreheads together.

 

“I—I want to say I love you too—believe me, I do, more than anything but—You said so yourself. You don’t feel like you know me. So how  _can_ you love me?” Jackson whispers, his tone firm but his hands were gentle as he caress’ Mark’s face. The cold feeling of rejection recedes but is now replaced by confusion.

 

“If I reply to your words with how I truly feel, I’d give up and let you fall—but Mark, I want you to be able to choose me. To truly say that you love me, that you know everything that makes me tick, that you truly wouldn’t mind waking up to my face, day after day. Because otherwise—I’d be the one bleeding, I’d be the one looking down at the river under the bridge.” Jackson finishes, and he’s never felt so raw and exposed. He’s put it out there. Now it’s up to Mark to pick up the pieces or walk out.

 

“Jackson, I  _do_ love you! I don’t care that I didn’t know that you fenced, or that you hated spicy food or your cell phone number—none of it ever mattered. All I’ll ever need is you, by my side. Please.” Mark pleads once again, refusing to believe that Jackson was rejecting him  _for his own good._

 

But Jackson doesn't budge. If anything, Mark's response made him even more resolute.

 

He silently ushers Mark to lie down in his bed.

  
"Get some rest for now. You're not in any condition to walk home and I'd rather not add more to the list of reasons why Jinyoung wants to cook my heart for dinner."Jackson says, trying to joke, but the serious atmosphere stifles all possibility of laughter. It doesn't help that what he said was probably true.

 

They stay silent. Mark, tucked in to bed--slowly feels his eyes droop. He really shouldn't feel sleepy, all he's done the past week was lie on his bed. But he felt comfortable. Surrounded by Jackson's sheets, Jackson's pillows, Jackson's smell-- Jackson. 

 

Jackson lets out a sigh as soon as Mark's breathing finally evened out. It took all his willpower and restraint to stop himself from just taking the other within his arms and whispering 'I love you's in his ear over and over again. He wanted to accept Mark's feelings and just set aside whatever issues they had but—but that wasn't fair to Mark. That wasn't fair to the both of them. 

  
Because when Mark realizes that Jackson wasn't who he thought he was-- when he becomes disappointed (they always do), he'll leave.  And he'll leave with Jackson's heart in his hands. 

  
Jackson fiddles with a well crafted butterfly knife--its red gleaming outer shell was lacquered and indented with dragons--as he reads through the invoice confirmation of his recent purchase.

 

A one way ticket to Hong Kong.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jinyoung can't stand the plastic abominations they call chairs. Good thing Jaebum's there to lean on.

 

“Mark, do you know why you’re here?”

Mark stares at the man. He stares at his sterile white coat. At his crisp white shirt. His pressed, dark slacks.

Mark was wearing sweatpants, a hoodie and bandages around his wrists.

The whole room was a sterile white. Clean and organized—everything had a place.

Except Mark. Mark who stood out like a red mar in the room—with his red hair, red stained bandages, perpetually red-rimmed eyes and red, bitten lips.

Mark’s always hated seeing his doctor.

“Because I’ve been bad?” Mark asks, looking down at his wrists.

The man just observes Mark for a bit before replying: “What happened, Mark? I honestly thought that I wouldn’t see you for a long time yet.”

His tone was neutral, his smile looked measured and his face looked too honest.

“I guess my new regular therapist wasn’t working out.” Mark says dryly. It’s not as if he was here by choice—he hated the intensive rehabilitation center more than anything else.

The doctor stares some more. Mark thinks that this is the part where people would usually sigh in frustration but the doctors in the center have always seemed above that.

“Mark, how have things been the past few months? I talked with your friend Jinyoung earlier, and he said you’d been doing well?”

It was always questions that came out of their mouths. Always prodding Mark--pushing him to things. He hates that.

“Fine. And… yes.”

“Would you care to elaborate?”

“No. I really wouldn’t.”

“Mark. I’m here to help you, but I can’t do that if I’m not even aware of your situation.”

“My  _situation_ is that I  _can’t stand you!_ ” Mark explodes, as he pushes himself up from the chair violently. He stands there, breathing in and out heavily, locked in a stare with his doctor. The doctor with the unfailingly polite but empty smile—just looking at him made Mark’s blood boil.

Mark wants to scream and throw things but the moment passes and Mark just opts to sit down instead. He didn’t want his parents to waste more money at this facility than they already were by sending him back.

The doctor adjusts his glasses, clicks at his pen and looks up at him once again. Unshakeable, that’s what he was. What Mark would give to be like that.

“Let me rephrase the question; what was the progression of events leading to your recent relapse?”

Mark stays quiet and still for what seemed like hours.

But, ultimately, he gives in. Because the more he cooperates, the faster he can get out of the facility.

 

…

 

Suzy and Mark were high school sweethearts.

Bae Suzy was the pretty exchange student who transferred in from Korea during Mark’s junior year.

Mark was the campus’s resident shy guy. He liked to listen to music and kept to himself most of the time.

One day, Mark bumps into Suzy, knocking down her books in the process. He helps her pick them up, apologizes and leaves.

They both had fleeting thoughts about each other.

_She’s cute._

_He’s nice._

And that was the end of that.

 

But their friends had different thoughts in mind.

 _You guys would make the cutest couple!_ They would insist.

 _Ooh look at our new power couple~_ They would tease.

Mark’s almost eighteen, on the verge of adulthood, but this doesn’t make him immune to peer pressure. Besides, what was the harm in trying?

Suzy, on the other hand, is new, new to her surroundings, new to the people around her—new and vulnerable. So when the nice guy who once helped her out, asked her out, she said yes. Suzy’s always dreamed of romance and warm hugs and interlocked fingers--besides, she felt safe with him.

And so Suzy and Mark came to be.

Where Suzy went, there was Mark. Where Mark went, there was Suzy.

 _Suzy and Mark, together forever._  They would tease.

And Suzy, she believed them. And Mark—Mark wasn’t so sure, but he knew that he felt comfortable with her, that he didn’t mind being with her forever.

Two years pass and they’ve been through a lot. They’ve fought, cried, screamed, left but they always came back to each other.

Because Suzy doesn’t think she can live her life without Mark anymore.

And Mark, Mark doesn’t want to venture into the unknown—because Suzy’s all he’s ever known for the past two years. If Suzy was happy, and he was content (it’s important to note though, that contentedness does not equal happiness.) then was there a need to end it?

Mark uses the same reasoning on himself when Suzy tells him that she wants him to go with her. To go with her to Korea. She was being called back to go to college in Korea.

Mark has learnt some few choice Korean words but he doesn’t think it’s enough to be able to  _live there._ But Suzy will be there with him, every step of the way, he argues.

And what about his parents? They could take care of themselves, they’ll have his little brother, he reasons.

What about college? He could go to college with Suzy, he assumes.

What about the costs? His parents have set up a fund for him long ago—he can make use of it. And although using it in this way makes Mark feel a vague, heady feeling of guilt, he none the less affirms.

He doesn’t really have any plans for the future himself, so it was fine to go with Suzy, right?

[Mark has no response to his last question]

…

“A-and there was just—there was a knife right  _there._ It was just  _too easy._ ” Mark continues, looking down at his hands resting on top of his lap.

“I see. Can you tell me what the upsetting news that caused your relapse, was?”

Mark hesitates. He didn’t want to tell him about Jackson—about his importance to him. He didn’t want to let one of the only things that bring him happiness, be spilled and filed onto paper—as if it was another mundane fact contributing to his recovery (or in this case, his relapse).

But as he looks to the clock hung on the wall to his right, he knows he couldn’t keep wasting his time here. Time that he could be using to track Jackson down.

“Jackson—my (confidant, lover, best) friend—he…” Mark pauses, collecting himself.

“…I found a plane ticket to Hong Kong on his desk. It was a one way ticket—and I knew that he had family there—that he may very well be staying there forever once he leaves. And I don’t want that—I didn’t want him to leave. I didn’t want him to  _leave me._ ”

…

Korea was cold. Mark imagines that it would have felt lonely and cold, had he went alone-- but he had Suzy.

He also imagines that he may have felt free to roam and went on many long journeys to the ends of South Korea’s borders, had he went alone, but-- he had Suzy.

Mark goes to the same university as her—he won’t lie, he’s not confident that he got in on his own merit. Suzy’s step father had sway and was a very rich man—he does not hesitate in giving Suzy everything she wanted.

University life was tiring, the hours required of him were beyond unreasonable. The workload taking up almost all of his free time.

His free time which he spends almost exclusively with Suzy.

It starts small.

She would drop little comments here and there about skipping class for the day. A little half-hearted comment about just not attending university altogether, delivered with a pout. His bus pass going missing, the same day that Suzy becomes sick with a fever. Contact numbers disappearing from his cell phone, one by one.

Mark finally realizes, when Suzy, who was breathing hard, broken pieces of her favorite glass vase on the floor, screams at him while clutching a sharp shard in her hand.

…

“Jinyoung.”

Jinyoung looks up, his arms folded, his body slumped against the ridiculously uncomfortable plastic chairs the hospital provides.

“Jaebum.” He replies, while looking up at the other.

“What happened?” Jaebum asks, his voice almost resigned, his hands clenched into fists.

Jinyoung looks down to the linoleum floor, tracing markings and skid tracks, before collecting himself and speaking.

“Jackson called me up to pick up Mark from his apartment—I didn’t even know Mark left, he hasn’t even rose from his bed the past couple of days before that. But when I got there, there was already an ambulance parked outside and I see—I see Mark getting carried out. Jaebum, he looked so  _pale._ ” Jinyoung says, his voice choking on  _pale,_ his hands tightly gripped together.

“Then—then the hospital called Mr. and Mrs. Tuan (and of course they did, because even if Jinyoung and everyone else has become like family to Mark—friends are ultimately not allowed to vouch for the patient, and  _it sucks._ Because Mark was more than a friend—he was family.) and then they transferred him  _here._  And I’ve been here since then.  _And I don’t know what to do._ ” He ends, near tears, looking up at Jaebum. Jaebum has always known what to do, even when he didn’t— _especially_  when Jinyoung didn’t know.

Jaebum meets his eyes, and he slowly unclenches his fists, before wrapping his arms around Jinyoung’s trembling form. He rocks him back and forth, whispering words (words none of them will recall later on), while stroking Jinyoung’s hair, the back of his neck, his shoulders and back.

…

 

 **Codependency** : a psychological condition or a relationship in which a person is controlled or manipulated by another who is affected with a pathological condition.

 

Mark has never heard of the word until he finds Suzy and himself diagnosed of it.

Mark doesn’t know if he should be angry, or find it funny, that one word could define all of the pertinent decisions he’s been making these past years.

One word defined the three years he’s spent with Suzy.

One word defined his decision to move to Korea.

One word defined all that he’s thought he’s felt for Suzy. What he was willing to do for Suzy. What he was going to promise to Suzy (a ring bearing a diamond, simple and small, signifying forever).

 _It is best to part ways_ , they advised. To sever the relationship, before it continues to poison them—continue to make Suzy’s state of mind deteriorate.

And once again, Mark follows.

[till death do us part]

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jackson knows his parents love him. He lets them know that he loves them too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter would not have been possible without the help of a blogger I follow on Tumblr. Many thanks to Wangkongism!

**_Depression_**   _is a loaded word in our culture. Many associate it, however wrongly, with a sign of weakness and excessive emotion. This is especially true with men. Depressed men are less likely than women to acknowledge feelings of self-loathing and hopelessness. Instead, they tend to complain about fatigue, irritability, sleep problems, and loss of interest in work and hobbies. Other signs and symptoms of depression in men include anger, aggression, violence, reckless behavior, and substance abuse. Even though depression rates for women are twice as high as those in men, men are a higher suicide risk, especially older men._

_-helpguide.org/articles/depression_

 

Jackson had always been distinctly aware that he’s led a very privileged life. He’s enjoyed the luxury of having his own room. Having a separate dining room at which he and his family gathered to share food and bond. Attending an international school, where many subjects educated him in more things than he strictly thinks he needed to know. Learning fencing, being able to fence, being able to  _compete._

 

He’s aware of these things and more than that—he is aware that all the luxuries that he’s enjoyed in life was because of his parent’s hard work. He owes it all to them.

 

He needed to re-pay them. To make them proud.

 

He succeeded.

 

[And therein lied the problem. ]

 

Sixteen years old and a gold medalist. Everyone showered him with praise. His friends bragged on behalf of him. His father hugged him tightly in his arms, congratulating him—telling him how proud he was. His mother letting tears fall, as she pulls him to her, whispering words of congratulations and praise.

 

It’s like he’d been put on a pedestal.

 

A small square of concrete, elevated dauntingly high above everyone else—it was suffocating.

 

_I can’t wait to see how well he’d do in the upcoming Olympics!_

 

He felt trapped and boxed in.

 

_Just wait, Jackson will crush all the competition._

 

He soon becomes distraught—anxiety crushing him.

 

_Jackson, we’re very proud of you!_

 

Failure meant to fall from the great height that he’s been set on. Jackson didn’t think he could survive that.

 

…

 

It envelopes him—like a warm, long-missed embrace. The feel of the sunken, old cushioned seat underneath him; the strong breeze whipping his hair back and forth; the sound his shoes make as they touch upon the concrete; the smells of many different kinds of foods drifting all around him; the noises of the people’s chatter reaching him; the vibrant colors of the people, the stalls and buildings, the  _city._

 

Hongkong.

 

…

 

How do you fight something you can’t see? Something you can’t touch? Something you can’t even begin to comprehend but something that you felt you had to fight nonetheless?

 

Jackson’s always just known fencing. The feel of the butter knife in his hands, although radically different in weight and length to that of a saber, felt much the same in his hands. It’s not sharp enough and he nearly digs out a chunk of flesh [which wouldn’t do at all, since he needed his arm whole to fence, to  _win_ ].

 

He learns to use sharper knives for the next times. The kind that cut into his skin like it was butter. The way the blood sluggishly leaves his veins is hypnotic, like watching a snail slowly meander across the length of the sidewalk. He never thought that he’d find the sight of his own blood beautiful.

 

He tries to be careful, because his uniform is white.

 

…

 

Something wet slides down his face and slips off the edge of his jaws onto his shirt. It forms dark blooms on his red shirt, like pretty, red poppies.

 

His mother was smiling. [it quickly fades as a familiar curling of her eyebrows settle in as she sees his tear tracked face.]

 

He’s quick to wipe away the salty tears, quickly making his way to give his mother a hug. He settles his arms around her carefully, keeping affirm but gentle hold on her as he lifts her. He peppers her with kisses. A peck or two upon her outstretched lips.

 

He was home.

 

…

 

It was never really about him winning. That didn’t really matter as much to his parents.

 

He realizes this too late. When all his carefully cleaned trophies were all but pieces of copper and glass on the floor—biting into his skin and making a proud, red mess of his clothes. When all his mother could do was cry and be held by his father [and in one lucid moment he thought  _that should be me comforting her_ ] as they tie him to a bed and take their golden boy away.

 

 [ Jackson questions if the moment their golden boy was lost was at that moment or the moment he first grabbed the butter knife in his hands.]

 

The days pass by in a blur, he was barely lucid enough to tell day from night, and just like that half a year had passed.

 

It was odd, coming into himself once again. It was as if he blinked, and fell asleep, the moment he was strapped away and then blinked again, to come face to face with a kindly smiling doctor.

 

Her face was littered with happy lines, the mark of one who led a content life--his mother would always say--, her hair thin and white.

 

Jackson asks her for her name after offering his. Her smile widens and she replies in kind. The whole affair felt pleasant—he was told of the current date [ he notes that he’s missed the Olympics that he had been training for in the first place, the thought makes his right hand twitch for a bit], told of his progress and confirmed release.

 

Jackson nods along, but he doesn’t remember a thing about his recovery. Doesn’t remember all the exercises she mentioned he had participated in, was he a new Jackson altogether? Jackson just accepts the thought and says nothing.

 

…

 

“Your father would be so happy,” his mother mentions while stroking his left arm, currently in her possession, as they sat together in the car, “to hear that you’re back. I’m sure he would hurry to come back, if he could…”

 

But Jackson wasn’t hearing any of it.

 

“Ah, no, it’s fine. I wouldn’t want to bother him—I heard he’s coaching some newcomers for the Olympics, right?” He says, quickly steering the conversation away.

 

His mother gives him an indiscernible look, but calmly accepts the diversion for what it was and chattered on to what his father was doing now. How he was training these nice boys, how they were shooting for the gold. How the boys looked up to him, his father’s golden boy.

 

Jackson grimaces. He hadn’t meant to steer the conversation to fencing.

 

“You know, your father would say yes.” His mother says, musingly, her hand wandering about and tracing invisible lines on his wrist. He felt vaguely uncomfortable, but did not pull away.

 

“Say yes to what?” He feigned.

 

“If you asked for him to train you, he would.”

 

Jackson sighs. This again.

 

“Jackson, you don’t have to prove anything.”

 

Slipping into the same argument with his mom felt like putting on old, worn slippers.

 

“Son, you are not a burden, you don’t need to turn away from us.”

 

The groves have already been made, its cloth fraying at the edges, and it was almost at its breaking point but not quite.

 

“You are our son, we love you.”

 

“I love you too, mom. You and dad, both.” He replies, kissing the top of his mother’s forehead.

 

He does not address the other statements. But he had time. Given enough time, to gather his courage, he’ll face this. [he resolutely refuses to acknowledge that although he came back to fix things, he also came back to run away from other things—Jackson had never denied being a coward]

 

…

 

He’s out. His mother is happy but a bit wary. His father is stern but supportive. Other friends and family clasp him on the back and encourage him but some others kept their distance and would only send him surreptitious glances.

 

He doesn’t have the heart to tell them that he doesn’t feel like fencing anymore. [if at all]

 

But what kind of ingrate son would he be, if he didn’t pick up the saber again after all the years his father poured in training him? After his mother went through the trouble to piece together all his broken trophies, maintained his saber and uniform and continued to believe in him faithfully?

 

He wasn’t an ingrate son, a damaged and shameful son maybe, but not an ungrateful one. He was determined to fight this [this  _disease_ ] and take back control of his body. Of his future.

 

He swears to stop being a burden to his family. To be able to support himself, then support them.

 

He thinks of getting a job. But the look on his mother’s face, as he mentions it, cutting his education short in order to earn for the family—she looked even more defeated and grievous than when she first saw the angry red lines on his wrist.

 

He decides not. But he continues to persevere, to look for other ways.

 

Jackson gets a scholarship.

 

The catch? He had to move to South Korea.

 

It was a difficult decision. On one hand, he would be able to provide for himself while continuing his education. On the other, he would leave behind his family and loved ones.

 

Ultimately, he decides to go.

 

 To stop being a burden, to earn back his passion for fencing and to run away from the heavy stares and accepting love that his family gave him.

 

 [he didn’t feel worthy]

 

...

 

 

His room was unlike how he left it. It was certainly cleaner.

 

Looking back, he was in too much of a hurry to pack all of his essentials, in order to care what state he would be leaving his room in.

 

He had told his mother to rent it out, in order to earn money, and though Jackson knows it won’t ever truly repay the debt he owed them for caring for their invalid and shameful son, it was at least something. Something that made Jackson feel a little better. How? He couldn’t say.

 

The room was too clean. His repaired trophies lined the cabinet, gleaming. He suspects that they hadn’t rented it out at all.

 

But he can’t bring himself to be angry.

 

 _How could I be angry?_ He thinks, as he buries his head into the soft down pillows, breathing in the nostalgic scent of flowery detergent—the same kind his mom has used since he was a child. He wets it with his tears, darkening the blue fabric, his salty tears blocking the scent slightly.

 

How could he be angry?  _He was loved. So, so very loved._

 

[and he didn’t deserve it]


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Mark, it's a waiting game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not the best written chapter i've ever posted and it may seem rushed or disjointed-- i'd be willing to take in any advice or comments on how to make it better from you-- but the way it ends...I've had it envisioned ever since i've started writing the second chapter. It makes so much sense to me? But I don't know if you'd agree. 
> 
> Nonetheless, I am so very thankful and blessed to have your continued support for these past months as I wrote VoiceMail. I couldn't have asked for better readers-- thank you so much and I hope you enjoyed the whole experience [the crying, the screaming and the smiles which stretched upon my face bordering on painful when I read the soft moments between the boys] as much as I had writing it.

 

Sometimes, people drift apart. Sometimes people choose to go different ways. Other times, they have to be wrenched from each other.

 

Mark liked to think that people may part for some time, only to unite once again.

 

Jinyoung thinks this is utter bullshit. But Mark had long ago stopped letting what Jinyoung says get to him. It was what he didn't say, that he had to pay attention to.

 

His sad smiling face and far away looking eyes whenever he didn't think Mark knew he was looking at him. The fact that he always bought two gallons of milk every week. How he and Jaebum would always knock on his door some nights, with dukbokki and strawberry milk on hand. 

 

Jackson was missed. Not just by him, but by everyone else as well.

 

When they found out--by way of finally knocking down Jackson's apartment door and finding it empty of everything-- Youngjae and Yugyeom asked innumerable questions, Bambam had laughed it off in denial and Jaebum and Jinyoung were just gravely silent.

 

For some time after that, Mark took all their sadness and anger as his repentance. It was his fault, he thought. Had he not gotten in the way, had he not meddled and forcefully dug himself a spot within the group [by Jackson's side], then Jackson wouldn't have left.

 

These thoughts were unrepentantly punched out of him by Bambam.

 

With a shouted "Stop making this about you! This is about Jackson-hyung and what a coward he is. When he comes back I'll punch him too-- so stop acting like you killed our puppy, Mark.", he swiftly makes his exit, only to reappear the next night with ice cream and rented DVD’s.

 

It was the first time that Mark truly felt like he belonged. The first time they hadn't treated him like an especially fragile vase.

 

That still didn't stop him from getting into a brawl with the other boy and hogging all the chocolate ice cream that night though. Cheeky brat doesn't get to get away with addressing him informally.

 

* * *

 

Two years of no Jackson pass by.

 

No word, no calls, not even a picture.

 

And its not as if they didn’t think to try to get into contact with Jackson…

 

Just that, more than anyone, Mark knows how important it is to have space and time for himself, to recover pieces of himself that he’s lost. And that’s what Jackson was doing, recovering what he’s lost and rediscovering himself—and for that Mark was…he was not needed yet.

 

They truly understand this, when they’ve gotten a hold of Jackson’s mother’s contact information.

 

Jackson’s mother had a nice and kind voice. It’s lilting tones and the way the hiked pitches of words signaled her excitement, were so very familiar, that it ached.

 

They told her of who Jackson was to them. How thankful they were--still are— that he came into their lives.

 

In turn, Jackson’s mother thanks them for their support and hopes they continue to love and support Jackson even if he’s not within their reach. She told them to always believe, to keep having hope, like she did, when Jackson had become her broken golden boy.

 

The whole conversation ended in tears and hitched breaths and although it almost felt like intruding, hearing Jackson’s story from his mother instead of hearing it from the person himself, they became closer to understanding Jackson’s action.

 

And they’ll wait.

 

Mark will wait, patiently, lovingly, kindly, without any expectations—like Jackson deserves.

 

Because Mark will make sure that when he comes [home], he knows he has a place to belong.

 

It’s been two years and still, there is this empty niche within Mark’s heart—just waiting to be filled.

 

* * *

 

Jackson is going to be attending the Olympics. Mark couldn't believe it. He was going to see Jackson again. Not in person, but he was actually going to _see_ him again. On television.

 

He looks to the side table, where his phone sat. His hand twitches towards it, itching to dial the same number he’d been dialing for the past couple of years. It was the new number Jackson had before he left. Bambam had given it to him. [Funny how he never got his number from the person himself.]

 

The first time he’d called it, he didn’t attempt again till the next month. But nowadays he called every time he had time to himself-- when he felt nostalgic. When the rain outside is too cold and warm cocoa’s not enough to warm his insides. When he’d wake up at midnight, from a particularly bad dream or another bout of heavy emotions, and he’d go out to buy dukbokki before coming back into the darkness of his room.

 

What he hears is nothing special. It’s actually pretty upsetting, especially in the beginning.

 

Two rings, then

 

_“The person you are calling is out of range right now, please try again later.”_

 

The voice was smooth and professional but Mark couldn’t help but think that it was all just such a hilarious ongoing joke.

 

But long after that statement is said, he would still keep his phone next to his ear and start talking. He talked about a multitude of things, his day, something interesting he saw on his way to work, what trouble Bambam and Yugyeom have been getting themselves into during their last year in college—you name it, he’s talked about it to Jackson.

 

In a way, he was still just that little bit dependent on Jackson. But his uncontrollable tremors were gone, he knew to eat without prompting and he didn’t simply lied like a corpse on his bed day and night—all this progress done. And without Jackson.

 

He got better.

 

And maybe, others would say he’s just being sentimental. He’s moved on, is what he tells everyone else. He hasn’t, is what he and the others know. The best part was, they call him on his bullshit, but they are also the only ones who believe. Just as fiercely as he does, that he’s better and that if he chooses to he could come to Jackson any time now, as a complete person.

 

Answer his questions, quench all his doubts as to the reasons why Mark loves him. But for now, he’ll wait.

 

For Jackson.

 

* * *

 

After the festivity with viewing the pre-recorded showing of the Olympics, he sits alone in his too big couch. He feels warm and mellow, almost melting into the couch, his hand unconsciously reaching for his phone and dialing the familiar number.

 

It rings once.

 

Then, thrice.

 

And another.

 

His doorbell rings. But he can’t focus on anything but his phone’s continuous ringing.

 

It stops ringing. But the doorbell doesn’t.

 

He makes his way to the door slowly, feeling a swelling weight within him with every step. He stares at the door handle in contemplation as he comes to a complete stop in front of it.

 

His phone was ringing now. Someone was calling him.

 

 _Jackson_ was calling him. Calling him back.

 

He opens the door.

 

 

 


End file.
